“This place has to reflect my standards,” she said. I smiled. Just last night, she had screamed in fright—startled by the motion-activated projector Grandma had given me years ago. It was a cherished family gift, once used during holidays to light up our hallway with dancing shapes. After Grandma passed, I tucked it away, unsure if I’d ever bring it out again. But when Dad’s wife threw out my belongings—family photos, even the quilt Grandma had sewn by hand—I retrieved the projector and set it up as a quiet reminder of whose home this truly was.
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