They both insisted that they wanted to help me through this difficult time, and when I moved in, I took only the essentials. They rest of my things were locked 30 minutes away at my home, locking away the memories of a life shared with Richard.From the beginning, there was simply one rule for the kids and myself: “Please, all three of you, stay out of the basement,” James had said when we were sitting for dinner, his tone was gentle but firm. “There are some repairs being done, and it’s really dusty and messy down there. We don’t want any of you to get sick or hurt. Understood?” The boys, John, 6 and Eric, 4, nodded.I understood James’ concern, too. I’ve had a lifelong battle with allergies, and dust and I have been feuding since I was a child. So, I agreed without giving it much thought. It wasn’t like I had any reason to go down there anyway. “Okay,” I said, giving Eric another chicken drumstick.
“All three of us will behave and not go to the basement.”Living with them was an adjustment. In the recent years, I had spent so much of my time alone with Richard, so now, living with four others, it was chaotic. Chaotic, but in the best way possible. “One day when I’m not here,” Richard would say. “You’ll take on your role of being a grandmother a lot more seriously.
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