I don’t know if I’ll ever get the courage to read the words she left behind, but at least I can find a small reprieve by helping her business continue to thrive.
The old stairs creek beneath my heels, the sound carrying down into the kitchen like it always did when my brother and I would race each other. The banister is worn smooth from years of hands sliding along the wood railing.
Sunlight spills across the wide-plank floors as the kitchen comes into view at the bottom of the steps. This space used to be Mom and Grandma’s domain.
Now, it’s just Grandma’s…
Sage-green cabinets hug the walls, the butcher-block counters scarred from decades of chopping and baking. The oak table near the stairs is crowded with a half-empty breadbasket and a vase of daffodils from the yard, while beyond the island, the house opens into the big sunroom addition—now the dining space for ranch hands. A long farmhouse table dominates the room, surrounded by mismatched chairs and a wall of windows overlooking Drummond Farm. It smells faintly of coffee, onion, and the orange oil Grandma uses to wipe down the wood.
Speaking of Grams, my eyes land on her small frame at the sink. She’s busy rinsing plates as the wide farmhouse window lets in fresh air. A few lunch dishes sit drying on towels. At the sound of my footsteps, she glances up, her eyes narrowing slightly in concern. If I weren’t familiar with the crinkle her eyes get, I would’ve missed the look entirely.
“Morning— Well, afternoon, honey,” she says gently. Her gaze lingers too long on me, on the way she takes in my slight frame.
“Morning,” I manage, forcing a small smile as I brush a loose strand of hair behind my ear.
A voice clears, and my gaze lands on my dad, who’s standing in the doorway separating the kitchen from the breezeway. He’s dressed in his signature Wrangler jeans, a short-sleeve plaid work shirt, and worn leather boots. The hair along his temples has grown almost entirely grey.
He tips his head in greeting. “Afternoon, Pumpkin.”
Pumpkin. My chest warms at the use of my childhood nickname, which only my parents and grandparents started calling me when I was six. It all stemmed from a Thanksgiving dinner when my brother, Nate, dared me to sneak the pumpkin pie and eat the whole thing. Deep down, I knew it was wrong, but seeing the bewilderment on my brother’s face when I polished the entire pie off was worth the trouble I got into. Since the Thanksgiving pie saga, the pumpkin pies stay hidden until dinnertime, and the nickname pumpkin has stuck with me ever since.
“Hi, Dad,” I smile sheepishly.
He steps closer to the built-in desk and begins rummaging through papers.
I stand there, unknowing what to do. Everything feels off in this house I once called my safe place. It still is in a sense, but it’s different. Now, it’s laced with pain and secrets.
“Mark, honey, I moved the file folder you left on the counter to the third drawer.”
“What would I do without you?” Dad asks Grandma as he opens the drawer and finds the folder he was searching for.
“Probably starve to death, amongst other things,” she tells him, causing us all to chuckle.
When Dad stands, we both stare at each other for a beat too long.
“I’ll have someone in the cottage tomorrow for a little inspection. Your–” He hesitates, swallowing past emotion and clearing his throat. “Your mom kept good care of the cottage, but no one’s stayed in a while.”
“Thanks, Dad. I…I can call around and hire someone if you don’t have time.”
He shakes his head. “Not a problem, Wren. Save your money.”
“Dad, really, money isn’t…”
“I know,” he interjects. “Let me do this, okay?”
With a nod, I drop the subject.
Grandma doesn’t press the elephant in the room. She’s never been the one to say much, always waiting for us to approach certain topics. She nods toward the coffeepot. “Pour yourself a mug, then go sit with your grandpa. He’s in the front room, away from all this commotion.” Her voice is soft, coaxing, an unspoken, “take your time.”
The rich smell of brewed coffee pulls me toward the counter. I pour two mugs before continuing down the hallway, the boards creaking in rhythm with my heartbeat.
The front family room is quieter, a world away from the bustle of the kitchen and dining area. The old recliner sits near the big window that looks out toward the barn. Grandpa’s settled into it, the afternoon light gilding the lines of his weathered face, while his favorite soap opera flickers on the TV.
“Hey, Gramps.”
“Hey, Pumpkin,” he says, eyes still glued to the TV.
As I step deeper into the room, I set his mug on the side table next to his recliner before moving to the leather sofa across from him.
