This Happy Memory

My first grandchild was turning three, sweet girl with a motherly bent. The perfect present seemed to be a dollhouse; so, shopping we went. She found one not by accident - real bells for the front and back door, three stories, carpet on the floor two-car garage, a three bedroom, kitchen and bath. Who could want more? Memory on the breeze, presumed. She had moved on, Kid's Kraft was done. Trying to hide my discontent, I asked, “What is wrong with this one?” “It’s not real.” Not like home she meant; her place, the five-room flat they rent. The Little People caught her eye "Here is my house," I heard her cry. there's mom, dad and me, just like home." With three dolls to boot, a good buy; no chic decor, no polychrome. Happy memory? not so true, but truly it is in a way. Only one went shopping, not two. I bought that dollhouse on display the fancy one, for her birthday and sensed her dissatisfaction. Her mom had bought the other one, small with three dolls a child could clutch. Three’s magic, mom’s gift so much fun while mine sat at my house untouched. written 02/03/2018