Page 104 of Good Days Bad Days

I kiss his head and help him up from the bench, opening the French doors on the back wall that lead to a private patio. He sits in his favorite chair, my mom’s favorite, and looks out on the lake that’s dotted with boats, and I breathe in the fresh lake air.

He’s right. This is home. A home away from home. The kids have come to call it home even though it’s only for a handful of weeks every summer.

Second Chance Renovationwent through with the crossover show withSqueaky Clean. My dad wanted the show to happen, and my dad rarely got what he wanted, so I sucked up my concerns and took the opportunity to get involved in the project.

With the full power of HFN behind us, in two weeks we had the house emptied, and we were able to watch the fireworks over the lake on the Fourth from my parents’ deck. I thought it’d be awkward, that I’d want to leave as soon as we stepped inside the fully renovated, state-of-the-art, wheelchair-accessible house.

“We should rent a place down the street, just in case,” I told Ian as we got on the plane in LA.

“Let’s give it a try. You never know. If it’s bad, we can leave.”

But it wasn’t bad. Olivia and the twins fell in love with the lake, Ian and I remembered how much we loved one another, and I got to watch my parents love each other in a way I never had as a child. We went home with sand in our shoes and a sense of peace that called us back to the house again the next summer.

That summer my mom sat in her wheelchair, not my mom or Betty any longer, but a confused version of both who stared at the lights in the night sky like she was watching a miracle from God himself.

The crossover episode was a hit, as Alex had predicted, and all the major networks and magazines covered the story of the house renovation guru restoring her parents’ home. It was a vulnerable time for me, weathering plenty of online criticism about how I abandoned my parents while others said I never should’ve forgiven them. I could see both sides in the aftermath of the show and press tour. But in the end, it didn’t matter what people said.

I’m grateful for the time I got with Betty.

As her memory continued to wane, she faded away from all of us over the next year. She occasionally seemed to remember her missing treasures or the baby she’d lost or even her daughter who was taken from her house, but she spent most of her last days staring out at the lake through the large windows in her bedroom while my dad played for her on an old Steinway he’d restored.

The repairs and the paycheck he received for letting strangers into his house made it possible for my mom to live in a safe home with round-the-clock nursing care. And one June evening in a rare instance of lucidity, she asked my father to hold her, and she passed quietly in her own home.

We spread some of her ashes in the lake, the rest remain with my dad.

There was a time in my life I thought I’d never step foot in this town again, and now I can’t imagine losing this part of myself andmy history. We considered selling the house and putting Dad into the assisted living side of Shore Path. He was willing, saying he didn’t want to be a bother. But, like today, when I watch my father in this house, a home he built with the woman he loved, a home they nearly lost, and a home we restored as a family, I know he belongs here. We belong here, and I’m glad I finally found a way to come home again.