And just like that, I stopped longing for simple dinners and cozy nights. I forgot the smell of lavender and the sound of Grandma Rose’s humming.

I told myself I was just growing up.

Slowly, Grandma’s house started to feel outdated to me. It was like the warmth had faded, though deep down, I knew it was me who’d changed, not the house.

When I thought of it, I pictured it as musty and worn. The charm I once loved became something I scoffed at. I visited less and less, and when I did, I was half-gone, glued to my phone, checking the time.

Once, I walked in and wrinkled my nose before even saying hi. I wasn’t proud of it, but that’s who I’d become.

“It smells old in here,” I mumbled, tossing my jacket over her chair.

Grandma Rose looked up from her crossword and gave a gentle smile.

“That’s just the lavender, honey,” she said. “You used to love it, Quinn.”

I cringe thinking about it now. But I didn’t respond. I just cracked open a window.

Still, she called me every week, like clockwork. Sometimes I’d answer distractedly, earbuds in, scrolling while she talked, but she never seemed bothered by my half-hearted replies.

Her voice was always warm, always asking if I was eating enough, sleeping well, and taking my heart meds.