“She had them paint it that color on purpose. It was supposed to be brown.”
“Huh.”
“It’s two hundred and fifty square feet. Who in the world wants to live in two hundred and fifty square feet?”
“Grandma, apparently.”
“And why is it on wheels? Where is she going to take it? She’s never left Texas.”
That, I must admit, is a good point.
The tiny house is kind of cute, actually. It’s basically a square box on wheels, but it has a certain charm, and it’s not just the cheery pink color. There’s a garden on the left side, and in front, two chairs and a small table. It’s on a plot of land surrounded by trees, a much larger home barely visible in the distance.
The door opens, and Grandma steps out. She wears a loose, faded blue dress with white daisies dotting the hem. Her gray hair is pulled into a bun and her lips are a bright pink color that almost matches the house. I don’t think I’ll look that good when I’m eighty.
“Lucy!” She spreads her arms wide.
I walk across the grass to embrace her. She holds me at arm’s length when I pull away.
“You’re not just my favorite grandchild, you’re also the most attractive one by a mile.”
“Mom.” Mom stops next to me with a grunt. “I wish you would stop saying that. It’s so rude.”
“It’s only rude if you tell the other ones.” Grandma turns away, waving for us to follow. “Come in! I made iced tea.”
I follow her inside, cold air blasting my face as I step out of the heat. Mom shivers. One upside of a tiny house—easy to keep cool in the summer. Or freezing cold, if you’re Grandma.
For two hundred and fifty square feet, the house makes impressive use of space. There’s a kitchenette to my right, and to the left, a sofa against the wall with a television mounted opposite it. For a moment, I wonder whether she sleeps on the sofa, until I see a rollout bed tucked into the wall. There’s a bathroom in the far corner with only a curtain for a door.
“Sit down, Kathleen, you’re making me nervous on those crutches.” Grandma points at the couch, and Mom obediently sits. I put her crutches against the wall.
“See, I can just move the table around when I have company!” Grandma slides the small square table so it’s in front of the couch.
I sit on one of the stools she pulls from underneath it. “It’s very nice.”
Mom shoots me a look like I shouldn’t encourage her. Grandma pours tea from a jug into three glasses, and then plunks two of them on the table. They’re stemless wineglasses, the kind you’re supposed to use for red. I only know this because Nathan is insufferably pretentious about wine. I like to drink my wine straight from the can.
“I’m glad you think so. Your mother is extremely disapproving.”
I take a long sip of tea and smile at her. Grandma doesn’t ask if you want your tea sweet or unsweet. There’s only one way iced tea is made, in her opinion—sweet enough to leave a nice coating of sugar at the bottom of the glass. （She is correct.） Mom waves her arms around in a way that feels disapproving. “You had a three-bedroom house! And now you live in a closet!”
“Tiny houses are very hip. Millennials love them.”
“You’re not a Millennial.”
She shrugs once, a shrug that would make Arya Stark proud.
Mom looks at me. Two matching vertical lines have appeared between her eyebrows. “Her old house was lovely. It had those big windows in the kitchen, and a sunroom in back.”
She says this to me like I don’t remember the house just fine. Like I didn’t spend many evenings there as a kid to avoid the yelling and tension at home. Grandma and I would sit at the kitchen table, eating candy that would ruin my dinner, while staring out the huge windows at the neighbor who always had to chase her little dog down the street.
“The sunroom was too hot most of the time anyway,” I say. Mom sighs.
Grandma nods in agreement, and then reaches into a cabinet to grab a bottle of vodka. She pours some into her tea.
Mom purses her lips. “Mom, it’s not even noon.”
“What’s your point?” She pours a little more into the glass. “Lucy, you want some?”
“No, thank you.” I try not to laugh.
“I seriously don’t understand developing a drinking problem in your seventies,” Mom says.
Grandma sits at the head of the table. “Why not? Way I see it, seems like the perfect time to develop a drinking problem. It’s dull as hell around here.”