“A carpentry workshop. And next to it, a small commercial kitchen.”
“When do you need it by?”
“I’m in no hurry, but I want it to be perfect.”
For the first time in 73 years, I was building something just for me without having to ask for permission, without having to justify expenses, without having to listen to complaints about the noise or the mess.
It was my money, my land, my decision, and it felt glorious.
6 months passed before I heard from David again. 6 months in which my life changed completely, as if I had emerged from a chrysalis and could finally fly.
The house turned out beautiful. Mr. Peterson hadn’t exaggerated when he said it would look like a palace. New roofs, restored floors, walls painted a soft yellow that made the whole house feel full of sun.
The commercial kitchen worked perfectly, and the carpentry workshop was exactly as my husband would have dreamed.
Helen and I had turned our home-cooked meal project into a small empire. We sold pies on Tuesdays, pastries on Thursdays, and preserves every day. On weekends, the town market was filled with people who came specifically to buy our products.
“Mrs. Margaret, Mr. Henderson, the notary, would tell me every time he passed by our stall, “You’ve aged backwards 10 years.”
And it was true. I felt stronger, clearer, more alive than I had in a long time. I worked from 5 in the morning until 7 at night. But it was work that filled me with satisfaction instead of draining me.
Jeremy’s wife, whose name was Ashley, had been a blessing. She created a social media page that had thousands of followers. She named it Grandma Margaret’s Kitchen. And although I protested because I wasn’t anyone’s grandmother, the name stuck.
We had hired three young women from the town to help us. Young women who needed work and were quick learners.
