This Saturday was one for the memory book. Grammy Lee, Little Faith, and I spent the day working together in what will one day be our bedroom, the room that once belonged Gram. Our task? Removing the stubborn old wallpaper that had clung to these walls for decades.

We started early, the kind of morning where the light comes in soft and slow, catching dust motes in the air and making even a half-emptied room feel a little magical. The walls were still covered in that faded floral print Gram had chosen years ago, its once-bright roses now muted and peeling at the corners. It felt a bit like stepping into the past, and I couldn’t help but picture her moving around this same space, smoothing those seams with careful hands.

Little Faith was determined to help, armed with her own tiny scraper and a seriousness that made both of us smile. She picked a spot just her height and went after it with all the focus in the world, stopping now and then to show us a particularly big strip she’d managed to pull off. “Look, Grammy! I got a whole flower!” she’d say, and Grammy Lee would clap like it was the best thing she’d seen all morning.

There was something tender about watching the two of them together in that room — past and future standing shoulder to shoulder, working side by side. Grammy shared little stories as we scraped, about the day she and Gramp first moved in, about choosing that wallpaper when the world felt younger and money was tight but hope was big. Every tear in the paper seemed to peel back not just glue, but time.

We took breaks, of course. Little Faith needed snacks, and Grammy needed to rest her hands, and honestly, I needed a moment now and then just to stand in the doorway and take it all in. The room, half bare and half blooming with old roses, felt caught between what it had been and what it was becoming. I could already see our bed against the far wall, the soft lamp in the corner, the little bookshelf for the stories we haven’t read yet.

By afternoon, the floor was covered in crumpled, curling pieces of paper, and our arms were tired in that good, satisfying way that tells you you’ve done something that matters. There were stubborn patches that just wouldn’t let go, corners where the glue was still strong, and we laughed at how much the walls reminded us of certain people we love — holding on long after it made sense, needing a little extra patience and care.

We didn’t finish it all, and that feels right somehow. This room has waited years for its next chapter, and it’s okay if we take our time stepping into it. When we finally called it a day, we stood together in the center of the room — Grammy, Little Faith, and me — and I felt that quiet, holy kind of tired that only comes after doing ordinary work with people you love.

One day, this will be our bedroom, our safe place at the end of long weeks, the room where bedtime stories are whispered and prayers are mumbled with heavy eyes. But today, it was a bridge between generations, a space where memories old and new met in the middle. And long after the last bit of wallpaper is gone and the walls are smooth and fresh, I know I’ll remember this Saturday — the laughter, the scraping, the stories, and the way love can make even a messy, half-finished room feel like home.

Unfortunately, the border and wallpapered wall there didn’t prove to be much easier. Still, with determination, we kept at it. At this point, we can officially say the kitchen, master bedroom, and what will be a cozy room with two twin beds are complete. We’re getting closer!