Nobody tells you when you’re a kid that one random Sunday at Grandma’s house will eventually be the last time everyone is there at the same time. The cousins are running in and out of the house. Somebody’s yelling, “STOP SLAMMING THAT DOOR!” The adults are sitting around the kitchen table talking about things you couldn’t care less about. There’s food everywhere. Someone is asleep in a recliner. You can hear the TV from the other room. You’re bored half the time and begging to go home. And you have absolutely no idea that you are standing inside a memory you will spend the rest of your life wishing you could walk back into. Then everybody grows up. The cousins move away. People get married. Families get busy. Grandparents get older. The house gets sold. Some people stop speaking. Some people are no longer here. And suddenly you’d give just about anything to sit at that kitchen table for ten more minutes and hear everybody’s voices coming from different rooms. The older I get, the more I realize… We weren’t “just going to Grandma’s house.” We were going to the one place where our entire family still belonged to each other. And somehow none of us realized it was temporary. If you had a house like that growing up, you were richer than you knew. 🤍 Whose house was “the house” in your family?