The Dollhouse in My Mother's Closet

When I was a little girl, my father built me a dollhouse with three floors, a staircase and real wallpaper. When I grew up, my mother wrapped it in blankets and kept it in her closet for thirty years.

In January, she gave it back to me. My granddaughter was turning five, and my mother said, "It's time."

The dollhouse needed work. The roof was cracked. A window was missing. The tiny furniture had lost legs. So I spent the whole month restoring it at my dining room table, with tweezers, glue and a magnifying glass. I found wallpaper samples that matched the old patterns. I sewed tiny curtains from a scrap of my old Easter dress.

On her birthday, my granddaughter tore off the paper and gasped. She spent the whole afternoon moving the little family from room to room. Then she found the tiny initials my father had carved under the staircase: my initials and the year, 1962.

"Grandma, this was yours?" she said. I nodded. She said, "Now it's ours." That's exactly right.