“We grew up here,” he finally says, unconsciously petting Sonny, who has curled up beside him on the bench seat. “This summer cottage is our connector, Mom, the piece that connects generations of our family. It means a lot that you saved it.”

“Thanks, Evan,” I say. “That means the world to me. It wasn’t easy.”

“You’re actually starting to think like a millennial.”

I bust out laughing. “Watch your words,” I warn jokingly, reaching over and jostling his shoulder.

My mind instantly fills with memories of the countless interviews I conducted with recent college graduates. Millennial applicants for job openings—entry-level copywriters and designers, assistant media planners, researchers and account executives—acted as if traditional workplace rules didn’t apply to them.

Can I work from home?

Have you considered eliminating print advertising completely?

Does this company treat its employees like family?

“It’s an entry-level job!” I wanted to tell them. “You don’t get to make up the rules! You should be grateful for the opportunity.”

It took a lot of control—and jabbing of pens into my leg—for me not to walk out or roll my eyes.

“It’s not a bad thing, Mom,” Evan says, breaking me out of my thoughts. “Every generation is different.” He stops and then gestures around the turret. “But there are things that unite every generation, too. Emotions, places, people. You were just as good of friends with your parents as I am with you.”

I nod. “True.”

Evan continues. “Starting this B and B is a very millennial thing you’re doing, Mom, whether you like to admit it or not. You’re taking a risk, you’re putting passion first, you’re realigning your entire work-life dynamic, you’re thinking in terms of missions, you’re being spontaneous, you’re willing to relocate.” He looks at me. “Those are all admirable things. Millennials get a bad rap by you older folks, but I think maybe we’ve just been raised to have the opportunity and blessing to focus on what matters most to us.” He stops. “I realize Grandma and Grampa and so many others before me couldn’t do that. But it’s not a bad thing.”

I smile at my son, his face still divided by light.

“Yes, you’re right,” I say. “Millennials—including you, my dear son—have always challenged my way of thinking, but I see that you all may be onto something bigger than simply playing by the old rules. And I’m all for that.”

Evan nods, his blond bangs falling into his eyes. He puffs out his lower lip and—with one big exhale—blows his hair back.

“I’m starving,” he says. “What do you have here to eat for dinner? I don’t think I can do another pizza.”

“Me either,” I laugh. “I’ve been living off of pizza.”