Last Christmas, he’d complained about the price of our new kitchen appliance.

Two days later, he ordered another expensive set of tools for his garage.

“Don’t you already own several toolboxes?” I’d asked.

“Not these particular tools.”

Apparently, replacing something was only reasonable when he was the person making the purchase.

Even grocery shopping could turn into a debate.

“Why are you buying the expensive cereal?” he’d ask.

“Because Owen likes it.”

“He’ll be fine with the cheaper brand.”

But when his Mustang needed premium parts, he insisted that quality was worth paying for.

I’d spent years accepting those contradictions because they seemed too small to argue about individually.

Now, however, he was criticizing something that meant more to me than almost anything else.

Grandma Rose’s house wasn’t just an aging property.

It was where I’d spent the happiest summers of my childhood.

Grandma had taught me how to make apple pie in its tiny kitchen. We’d read books together during thunderstorms and spent warm evenings on the porch watching fireflies.