Still thinking about the grandma I almost rented from 9 years ago
I was talking with some friends last Thursday night over dinner in my old neighborhood, where I used to live solo. It sits right close to one of the most beautiful areas in the city. The conversation brought back a vivid memory of a flat I desperately wanted almost nine years ago.
It was a basement flat in a chalet, nestled right in that beautiful, nearby neighborhood. The owner was an older woman who lived alone; her children had long since moved away, so she rented out part of her home. At the time, the rent was just too expensive for me, and her rule against having visitors felt a bit too restrictive.
But looking back, it isn’t the flat itself that I remember most.
At one point during the viewing, she mentioned that maybe we could share meals sometimes. For some reason, that is the detail that has stayed with me all these years. I loved my own grandmother and my grand-aunt dearly, and hearing those words immediately made me picture a life that went far beyond a standard tenant-landlady relationship.
When I told this story, my friend asked if that offer had turned me off. Definitely not. Knowing myself, if I had moved in, I probably wouldn’t have left until she passed away. I am simply the kind of person who gets deeply attached.
He said that would have been a great experience, and I couldn’t agree more.
Financially, not moving in was the right decision. Yet, every now and then, my mind drifts back to that flat and that woman. Not because I regret missing out on the property, but because I wonder about the life that might have unfolded there.
The shared dinners. The quiet, daily conversations. An unexpected friendship.
Wherever she is now, I hope she is doing well. Every now and then when I pass by that neighborhood, I still say a little prayer for the local grandma I never had.