My father has his carpentry workshop in the back, and on the ground floor, in the front, the store. My mother runs the store and he handles the furniture manufacturing, with his two employees.
That had always been our house; I grew up there and the attic bedroom was always mine.
I liked knowing that my mother still had my room ready in case of emergencies, and it was comforting to sleep in that bed again after two years of not doing so.
I felt like a fifteen-year-old girl again among my things.
“Someday you’re going to have to throw all this out, Mom,” I told her one morning jokingly while we were making the bed together. “It’s not like keeping it is going to give it any value — they’re just meaningless dolls.”
“…Or I can put it all in a box and you can take it with you to Wyoming, if
