The kitchen had been remodeled—white cabinets, marble countertops, stainless steel appliances. Objectively, it was beautiful. Subjectively, it made my heart ache. The hand-painted tiles Mom and I had created one summer—little scenes of starfish, seagulls, and our family name surrounded by swirling waves—were hidden behind panels or removed entirely in some places.
I ran my fingers along one intact tile we’d managed to find behind the toaster and whispered, “We’ll fix this.”
One step at a time.
I rehung the old family photos I found stuffed into boxes in the attic, pushed behind holiday decorations and forgotten sports equipment. There was one of my grandparents standing proudly in front of a much younger version of the house, my grandmother wearing a bandana, paint roller in hand. Another of Mom, pregnant with me, holding a paintbrush dipped in sea-blue paint as she gestured dramatically at the bare wall where a mural would later bloom. Countless pictures of me: covered in sand, building crooked castles, perched on the porch railing with a book, asleep in a hammock with a half-eaten popsicle in hand.