“And this is your room, baby doll!” says Grandma. Correction: Says Miranda. My grandmother has asked that I call her by her name as the term “grandma” makes her feel old. I humor her.

We step into the room, and I hold back a frown. It’s all unicorn and princess themed and for a moment I smirk at the thought of my mother sleeping here when she was my age.

“I know it’s not much, and I’m sure you’ve grown out of your pony stage…”

I decide not to tell her that I never had a “pony stage”.

“But you’re welcome to do what you like with it.”

“You better hold her to that, Jac,” says my mom from the doorway, a lit cigarette hanging from her lips. “She told me the same thing and the moment I tried to take down all this crap she made me leave it up.”

Miranda just chuckled. “Don’t listen to your mother, Jacobi. She’s just mad because she has to sleep in the guest room.”

I guessed from the look in my mother’s eyes that there was a lot more to her resentment than just some crappy wallpaper.