Fake it til you make it. Or until everyone believes you and stops asking questions.

My mom tells stories of the home she grew up in. Full of love and strong personalities and swapped maternal roles and store bought dinners. I believe her, but to me, Grandmas home was magical. So close to the beach that it smelt like salt water. Windows and doors open, classical music playing. There was a closet of shoes and endless Tic Tac boxes all over the place. There was a little hideaway above the garage and I never knew if it was called the "craft" or "crap" room. I just avoided saying either for fear of being wrong. She had a freezer outside with ice cream and a plum tree in the backyard. It could sleep 100 people easily. There was a room devoted to music and another devoted to tacky furniture. It was my home when Texas wasn't and it was where my mom scraped her knee and brought my dad to meet the family and the address she had memorized. It was her home so it was mine too.