When my old fridge died, I scraped together everything I had and bought a used one from a thrift store. A strange woman begged to buy it instead, but I got there first. Three days later, I found something hidden inside that made my heart race.
I’m 63 years old, and for the past four years, it’s been just me and my grandsons, Noah and Jack. They’re eight-year-old twins with sticky fingers, endless questions, and hearts big enough to melt the coldest day.
Their parents, my daughter Sarah and her husband Mike, died in a car accident when the boys were only four. Since then, I’ve been both Grandma and Mom, doing my best to keep us afloat on a fixed income and more determination than sense.
People always say grandkids keep you young. I tell them grandkids keep you exhausted and running on coffee fumes.