Last night, I had a rare glance through the glass door of the house next to mine and caught my breath. New neighbors have lived there for a while now, but in that moment, looking through that familiar doorway, I wasn’t seeing their house. I was seeing my mother’s kitchen, hearing the side door slam as cousins chased each other through, smelling whatever was always simmering on her stove – maybe chili, maybe brown beans and fatback.
It’s been four years since we lost her, but sometimes the absence feels as fresh as yesterday.
For the most magical stretch of my life, my mother lived right next door. Not down the street or across town, but literally next door—close enough that my kids could run over in their pajamas, close enough that I could see her lights on at night and feel comforted. She kept my children every single day, and looking back now, I realize what an extraordinary gift that was. Not just the practical help, though having her as a babysitter was invaluable. But the gift of having my children grow up wrapped in their grandmother’s love, absorbing her laughter, her stories, her way of making everyone feel like the most important person in the room.
She was the hub of our family. We joked that she was the family “don,” like a mafioso—and in a way, she was. Her house wasn’t just a house—it was where the family happened. Where cousins became best friends. Where my sisters and I dropped by without calling first. Even the neighborhood kids called her Gran—that’s the kind of welcoming presence she had. Where there was always room for one more at the table, where she acted as short order cook making whatever the grandkids asked for, always an audience for a child’s latest accomplishment or scraped knee. And there was always her voice—singing country music songs in that authentic West Virginia drawl, a soundtrack to our family’s everyday joy.
The chaos was wonderful. I can still see it: kids thundering through rooms, playing hide-and-seek in closets, building forts out of couch cushions. Adult conversation and children’s laughter mixing into this beautiful noise that meant family. Mom in the middle of it all, somehow managing to keep track of every child while making each one feel seen and special.
When I looked through that glass door last night, all of it came flooding back. The ache of missing her mixed with something else—a profound gratitude that catches me off guard sometimes. We had that. For a season of my life, I had my mother next door, my children had their grandmother’s daily presence, and my extended family had a place where we all belonged.
Not everyone gets that moment in time. Not every child grows up knowing their grandmother’s house as well as their own. Not every family has a gathering place where the door is always open and love is always abundant. We did. We had her, and she had us, and we were all together in the most ordinary, extraordinary way.
The house next door belongs to someone else now, and that’s as it should be. But last night reminded me that while I lost my mother four years ago, I’ll never lose what she gave us. The memories aren’t just in that house—they’re in me, in my children, in all of us she touched.
I was so lucky. We all were.
—Robyn
