I grew up in a small town in northern Michigan. Picture cozy porches, wood-burning stoves, and long winters that made you lean a little harder on the people around you.
My mom, Mary, was a school nurse.
Her mother, Grandma Liz, was the glue that held our world together. She was never rich, but she had a quiet strength, the kind of steady presence you could count on when your knees gave out. Even her silence had a way of making the room feel warmer.
I’ve always been close to my mom, but Grandma was my safe place.
I’d go to her house after school, help her fold laundry, or watch her slice apples with that same old paring knife she used since before I was born. She always smelled like Ivory soap and cinnamon.
What I didn’t realize until much later was how fractured things were between Grandma and her other daughter, my Aunt Karen.
