Above the mantel, there’s a shrine to the Dunbar children and their eight thousand cousins. School pictures. Christmas cards. Summer vacations sticky with melted popsicles at the beach. Bathtub bubble beards. Rosy cheeks in the flurries of winter. Decades of memories.

I sigh and look to the floor. Keeping warm against the fire is a very large beagle.

“That’s Sir Reginald,” Gran tells me. “Bit of a lazy sod, but he’s sweet as a biscuit.”

Probably because he’s the canine embodiment of a biscuit.

The dining room is a mess of fabric swatches and textile scraps. Black tulle is thrown over a chair. Red velvet draped over a dress form. There are yard and yards of pink satin and white lace resting against the wall. A tin of pins and needles is tipped over by a sewing machine, tiny pearls spilled onto the floor. Gran is the epitome of chaotic good.

“You just missed all the Christmas pageant excitement,” Gran laughs. “It was a living nativity scene in here. Though, I suspect the use of the naughty step wasn’t as popular in biblical times. Angels were screaming. Sheep were crying. A shepherd ripped fake baby Jesus’s head off. They should really rename the song O Hellish Night.”

I stifle a laugh.

“But onwards and upwards to wedding season,” she says. “The Kaufman-Malloy wedding is coming up in April. I’m doing the dress.”

“That’s exciting,” I lie. I’m not in the right frame of mind to be happy for anyone. I’ll get there. But not now. Not when I’m damp and frizzy and still on New York time.

“Are you hungry?” Gran asks. “I can put the kettle on.”

“I’m fine,” I say as I follow her into the kitchen.

It’s a tight squeeze, but I’ve been in apartments on the Upper West Side that are smaller. The once white cabinets have yellowed with age, the counters cluttered with odds and ends. A tea kettle. A French press. A handle of gin… A small table takes up most of the space in the center of the room. It’s older than me. Maybe even older than Gran. It’s been scrubbed to death, the wooden top chipped and faded. There are small traces of red paint and blue crayon.

Once, when I was six, I spilled a cup of orange juice on our living room couch. My mom fired my nanny for being negligent and giving me sugary drinks.

“My room is just through there.” Gran points down the hall and then shows me to a very narrow spiral staircase that leads to the second floor. “You’re in the upstairs loft. I haven’t been able to do the stairs in years, but Aggie and Nora fixed it up for you. You’ve got your own toilet and everything.”