The Family House

The Family House

“Can I help you?” a voice came from behind Alice. A young woman stood there.

“Are you lost?”

Suddenly realizing she’d been standing there a while, Alice understood the woman thinking she needed help. “Thank you, no,” she said, “I was just looking at this house.”

“Yes, I know,” she said, “it’s my house.”

“Oh goodness! I’m sorry, I was lost in thought. I used to live here.”

“Really? How exciting! I just bought this house a while ago. The former owner didn’t have any information about its past beyond how old the furnace was, and things like that. I would love to hear anything you remember about it.”

“I remember plenty,” I said. “My father built it.”

“Goodness! Please, won’t you come in! I would love to hear more!”

I accepted her invitation. Living in a one room apartment in an drafty rental, I had no desire to hurry home.

Angela told me, over coffee, all about how she bought the house. Then she started asking questions and we spent the next hour going over my entire childhood knowledge of the house, and beyond. It also came up that she was single, very independent, and hated to cook.

“Oh, I love to cook,” I’d said. “I never get to cook much anymore. My apartment has a tiny stove, but there’s only me.

And she said, “You know, I was thinking of renting one of the bedrooms. I travel a lot, and I thought it would be nice to have someone here all the time... Would you be interested?”

And that’s how I suddenly became part of the family, your family, before your mother and father had even met.

“Tell me more Grammie Alice!” said six year old Susan, “Did you really grow up in this house?”

“I did indeed.”