When I was a little girl, my grandmother built a doll house for my sister and me. I probably enjoyed it more than she did because I was young and played with it longer but over the years it got pretty beat up. Eventually it ended up being shoved in the back of the attic at our parents’ house only to be rediscovered years later when they decided to retire and move.
The house was a little bit of a mess, covered in dust and knocked off its foundation. My sister had just given birth to a daughter but didn’t want the broken down house taking up space. I was living alone and the only one of us capable of fixing it, so I took it and told my sister that I would fix it up and when my niece was old enough I would bring it back. It would be nice to see the old house being used again.
I bought the stuff and spent the next 5 years fixing it up. I would have had it done sooner but I was working 40 to 60 hours a week. I painted it a dark pink and completely re-did the inside with fresh wall paper. That Christmas I went to my sister’s house when my niece was not home and hid it in a spare bedroom with a sheet over it.
As excited as my niece was to see it come Christmas Eve, it was nothing compared to the look on my grandmother’s face. I am not sure what she thought had happened to it after all these years but she seemed happy to see it and despite my changes, she knew that it was the same doll house.
I forgot to take some after photos.