The Day I Dropped My Husband at the Airport, My Eight-Year-Old Daughter Warned Me Not to Go Home. Minutes Later, I Saw Why.
I looked around and saw the house through her eyes.
It was not impressive.
There were no grand stairs or expensive fixtures.
But it offered her a place to arrange books, wake up safely, and decide how to decorate a door.
The move took one rented van and the generous help of friends.
Sarah carried boxes.
Rachel brought towels.
Denise arrived with sandwiches and an extension cord.