DMCs: Bubby and Me

T wo years four months and one week ago my parents sat us kids down and told us that my father’s mother Bubby Schwartz was coming to live with us. It turned out that she could no longer care for herself didn’t want to go to a nursing home and of all the aunts and uncles my parents were the only ones who didn’t have a new baby and had enough room.

“Enough room?” I squealed. “Where’s she going to sleep?”

And I knew before my parents even said anything: Bubby Schwartz was going to get my bedroom — the room on the main floor closest to my parent’s bedroom — and I’d be moving to the basement guestroom.

I was fuming. I did not want the guestroom. There were spiders. I’d have to sleep on the couch any time we had overnight guests. And I loved my room.