Author: Ann Marie Bryant

As of late, I am a sixty-something grandmother who loves to write. Since I come from a long line of storytellers, I believe it's time to share those stories and preserve our family history. My hope is that my family will treasure these memories as much as I do!

Bonjour, Québec!

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Daily writing prompt
What cities do you want to visit?
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Visiting Québec is more than a journey; it is a homecoming to the roots of our family’s North American story. Our earliest ancestors helped shape New France, tending the land, building homes, and gathering in the city’s first churches. As we wander the cobblestone lanes of Old Québec, step inside Notre-Dame-des-Victoires, and stand on the Plains of Abraham, named for our ancestor Abraham Martin, we walk in their footsteps and feel the weight of their hopes and hardships. Québec City breathes history, inviting us to experience not just a place but a living legacy of faith, family, and resilience that endures through the ages.

Many of my ancestors are named on this plaque

Witnessing the Miracle of Birth: My First Grandchild’s Arrival

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Daily writing prompt
Tell us about your first day at something — school, work, as a parent, etc.
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When the moment came to take my daughter up the winding road to Fort Carson—the Mountain Post—so she could finally deliver her baby, my heart lodged firmly in my throat. It was dark and bitterly cold that December night. Though worry shadowed every mile because she had endured a difficult pregnancy, my excitement grew with each turn of the road. I was about to become a grandmother, and I knew the birth of my first grandchild would be unlike anything I had ever experienced.

The miles rushed by as we pulled into the hospital parking area, searching for the closest space near the emergency room. Her pains were intense and coming fast.
“Do you want me to get you a wheelchair?” I asked, trying to keep my voice steady.

Through clenched teeth, she answered in a clipped, pain-filled tone, “No.”

But after only a few steps, she leaned her aching body against the wall and nodded. Her strength wavered, and so did mine. I hurried inside, asked for a wheelchair, and returned with the help of a nurse. Together, we eased her into the chair and rushed her through the doors.

Before long, she was settled in the maternity ward, enduring hours of exhausting labor. I sat beside her, helpless, fighting back tears as each contraction took its toll. My heart ached not only for her pain but for her fear—fear for her baby boy. With her husband deployed in Korea, I knew I had to be her anchor, even as I felt myself unraveling inside.

When it was time for the spinal block, I stepped out of the room, painfully aware of my role and my limits. I paced the hallway, listening to her voice as she spoke with the nurse, hearing the strain and discomfort she tried so hard to hide. Watching your child give birth is both a blessing and a curse. You are close enough to feel every moment, yet powerless to ease a single ounce of the pain.

After the block, she was finally able to rest and drifted into sleep. I watched the baby monitor, my eyes glued to the flickering lines, knowing something wasn’t right. Mathew was in distress. I have never prayed so hard or felt so utterly helpless in my life.

When it was time for Mathew’s birth, everything happened at once. The room filled with urgency—pushing, commands, hurried footsteps—and then crying. Not the cry I had hoped for. Fear followed swiftly behind. After cutting the cord and holding him for the briefest moment, the doctors rushed Leslie and Mathew from the room. Both were in distress. I stood there, desperate to be strong, yet feeling as fragile as glass. The waiting that followed was unbearable. Both of my babies were in danger, and love and fear intertwined in their rawest form.

I paced the waiting room until the moment finally came when I learned they were both safe. Relief crashed over me in waves, leaving me weak with gratitude. I will never forget when Mathew’s nurse approached me and asked if I would feed him. They wanted Leslie to rest—she had lost a significant amount of blood during delivery.

As I held my grandson for the second time and fed him, warmth spread through me. His tiny body was cocooned in a soft blanket, a red-and-white Santa hat perched on his head. His eyes remained closed as he latched onto the bottle and drank. My heart swelled with wonder. From that moment on, my little man had me completely wrapped around his tiny finger.

Later, while Mathew rested in the Neonatal Intensive Care Unit and Leslie slept soundly, I slipped outside to the car. I turned on the engine, letting the heat warm my frozen hands, and the radio came to life. In that quiet space, my emotions finally collapsed. The crisis had passed—mostly—but we were not yet out of the woods. Gratitude tangled with lingering fear, and the weight of the past year came crashing down. It had been a long, hard road.

When my tears were spent, I lifted my eyes to the darkened sky and whispered another prayer of thanks—for my babies, my world. As I exhaled, Bryan White’s song “God Gave Me You” played on the radio. I had never heard it before, yet the lyrics felt as though they were written just for that moment. Comfort washed over me, and for the first time all night, I felt peace.

In that moment, I truly understood the depth of love and the fragile beauty of life. Time seemed to stand still as fear and faith collided, and grace carried me through what my heart could barely hold. That day changed me forever. I became a grandmother not only through joy, but through fear, faith, and grace—forever marked by the miracle and the weight of that night.

“God Gave Me You” – Bryan White

Moments of Joy

Published on by Ann Marie Bryant6 Comments

Often throughout our daily lives, we stumble upon small, unexpected moments that feel like treasures—instances that settle into a special place in our memories. These simple occasions, whether shared conversations, bursts of laughter, or quiet pauses in a busy day, usher in fun-filled times that linger long after they’ve passed. Over time, we come to realize that these fleeting moments, gathered almost without noticing, have become some of our favorite memories, reminders of a life well lived and richly felt.

When I moved to Colorado in 1979, I soon found employment with the Bureau of Land Management Young Adult Conservation Corps, based in Canon City. For this former city girl who loved the outdoors, it was my dream job. I was able to visit so many amazing places and witness incredible beauty and wildlife.

In the beginning, we were mainly an all-girl crew of three girls and one guy, and our work often took us to Bighorn Sheep Canyon, located between Canon City and Salida. We worked long days in all seasons. The canyon was a great place for outdoor adventures, hiking, camping, fishing, and river rafting. At Five Points, a favorite stop for fishermen, we often cleaned the area, hauled out trash, built fences, and made repairs. The surrounding area was breathtaking. Rugged mountain terrain ran along the highway to the south; a sliver of land between the river housed the area known as Five Points; and the railroad tracks ran along the canyon across the river, with mountains as a backdrop. Often, we would spot the bighorn sheep that lived in the canyon. For this former city girl, my heart always soared with excitement when one was spotted.

One winter, only the girls showed up for work. We drove to Five Points with our crew boss, Pete. I never tired of the view. On that day, the landscape was covered in white brilliance; the river formed a frozen sculpture of frozen ripples along the edges and floating, glistening ice patches that resembled large chunks of broken glass. Pete drove the truck, and I sat in the back in the crew cab with my nose pressed against the window, taking in the beauty. Pete had already gone over the instructions for the day. We were repairing a fence at Five Points, cleaning the site and the bathrooms, and hauling out the trash. Our little crew enjoyed each other’s company, and everyone talked and laughed about weekend plans.

Once we arrived, we pulled on our government-issued winter gear. Our winter pants were several sizes too large and cinched with belts, which made us look like we all had duck tails. That day, I wore a large sweater over my YACC uniform shirt and my bomber jacket over my sweater. We all wore knitted beanies to keep our ears warm. Other than the truck, no one would guess we were a YACC crew for BLM.

We quickly cleaned the area and the restrooms and began working on the fence. While we worked, travelers stopped to use the facilities, take pictures, and admire the winter wonderland. One man stopped, parked his car, and exited with a camera. He looked around and began to walk toward us. He was lean and lanky, dressed in jeans, an off-white winter coat, and expensive hiking boots. He had a warm, easy smile and a manner to match.

Pete was not with us and visited with some of the tourists who had stopped and wanted information about the area. As the young man approached, he smiled and began to talk. It was so cold that our breath was visible, like small moving clouds. Curious, he introduced himself and explained that he was a reporter from a nearby newspaper. The reporter began asking questions, and soon it became clear he thought we were inmates from the Women’s Prison.

The girls and I exchanged looks; honestly, our gear could pass for prison work gear. In a moment of complete wickedness, I decided to play along. I don’t know why I did it or where my acting skills sprang from in that single moment. But I gave an Oscar-worthy performance as the reporter began asking questions.

“Why, yes. We are from the Women’s Prison,” I sweetly answered, barely batting an eye.

“Do you mind if I ask how much you are paid for your labor?” the man kindly asked.

“Our pay? Oh, we make 50 cents a day,” I stated in a matter-of-fact voice.

His eyebrows furrowed in earnest, unnerved by my answer. In a low voice, he questioned, “Do they treat you well?”

“Yes,” I replied. “They treat us well. The work is hard, but we don’t mind because we get outside. Five days a week, and we enjoy Colorado’s beauty.”

I made quite a performance, and the rest of the crew tried not to smile.

“Our crew boss, Pete, is right over there. He keeps us in line,” I told the reporter. Pete happened to be watching us, and I waved; he responded with a smile and a quick wave of his own.

The man asked if he could take some photos, and I agreed. The three of us posed together, smiling for the camera.

As he walked away to visit with Pete, the three of us broke into laughter.

“Pete will make us pay for this one,” Kim chuckled.

Trying to look innocent, we started working once again but secretly kept glancing as the reporter approached Pete. In quick order, we watched Pete’s face change as the two men began talking, and the reporter began asking about the inmate program. We tried not to laugh as Pete’s face transformed from confusion to dawning realization to absolute disbelief.

From across the parking lot, Pete, red-faced, bellowed, “ANNIE!!” And the girls and I could no longer hold in our laughter. The reporter turned and looked at me, realizing he had been had. He threw his head back and howled with laughter, then turned and gave me the thumbs up. He and Pete spoke for a few more minutes before shaking hands. The reporter walked back to his car, his boots crunching in the snow. He smiled and gave us one last wave before climbing into his car and pulling out of the parking lot.

We turned and looked at Pete. With a stern look, Pete stormed over to us while marching like a general on a mission, ready to scold. We honestly tried not to laugh but could not hold it back.

“Annie, what were you thinking?” He angrily admonished.

Trying not to smile, I recounted, “Well, he assumed we were women prisoners, so I played along, and well, it just snowballed from there!”

Once he heard our side of the story, he couldn’t keep up his stern demeanor. The scowl on his face slowly softened, then broke entirely as he burst into a deep, unexpected laugh. In the end, he even rolled up his sleeves and helped us finish the job. For us, it was just another extraordinary day with the crew, a day full of hard work, good humor, and the kind of moments that made this team feel like family.

Looking back, that day at Five Points became one of those stories we told over and over. It was the kind of story that only comes from long hours, frozen fingers, and a bond forged by shared hard work. Life in the YACC wasn’t glamorous, and it certainly wasn’t easy, but moments like that reminded us why we loved it. We learned to laugh when the cold bit through our coats, to find joy in the absurd, and to hold tight to the friendships that made the work worthwhile. It proved that even the smallest shared moments can reveal the joy of a life shaped by connections and experiences. And even now, every time I drive past Five Points, I can still hear Pete’s voice echoing through the snow and feel the warmth of that laughter cutting through the cold.

Up, Up… and Right Back Down

Published on by Ann Marie Bryant2 Comments

Henry eyed his mom’s balloons—all 250 of them—as they bobbed against the kitchen ceiling like a pink-and-red cloud. He listened to her conversation with Aunt Elizabeth. “Steven won’t take no for an answer,” she laughed. “He doesn’t care if I have a kid. Yes, he really sent 250 balloons with 250 messages. No, I haven’t read them all, but each note gives a reason to date him. What do you mean I should wait to introduce him to Henry?” His mom bristled. “What’s wrong with Henry?”

Annoyed, Henry’s mom ended the call with her sister, but not before Henry heard Aunt Elizabeth laughing hysterically on the other end. Henry’s mom knew Henry could be a handful, but basically, he was a good kid.  He was just inquisitive and challenging, and needed watching every minute of the day to avert any disaster known to mankind.

Sighing, she returned to work on her design for a new client. Her latest customer would call shortly, so she reviewed the papers one more time. She knew her video conference would start in about five minutes, so she ensured Henry had plenty of activities to keep him occupied. Making a mental list, she whispered, “Snacks, check. Crayons and coloring book, check. Books, check. Cartoon channel, check.”

She seated Henry at the kitchen table and warned him to behave during her video call. He smiled and nodded, and she prayed to all that was holy that he would be quiet during her meeting. Surely, what could go wrong? She sighed. Who was she kidding? Her six-year-old son had a wild imagination, was curious about the world around him, and had zero brakes when it came to crazy ideas.

Slowly, the worried mom turned to her office, grateful that it was off the kitchen. Henry began coloring, but quickly grew bored. He ate all his grapes and chunks of cheese and downed his glass of milk. Still bored, he picked up his book and set it on the table. The cartoon was one he had watched many times before. He looked around the room, trying to find something to do. The yellow tabby, Precious, lounged on the windowsill, soaking in the morning sun. He eyed the balloons and then the cat. A science experiment! He sat up suddenly, bounced out of his seat, and ran to his mom’s office.

“Mom, Mom,” Henry shouted. “Can I play in the backyard?”

His mother glanced at the clock on her desk. It had barely been fifteen minutes. How was she to keep him occupied for at least another half hour? She whispered, “Yes, yes, go outside, but stay in the backyard.”

“Yes!” Henry shouted, fist in the air.

At once, the young scientist began to formulate his latest project. He recalled watching a cartoon involving hot air balloons. He eyed his mom’s balloons and then Precious. Unfortunately, the feline was too polite to run and hide.

He carried Precious to the back porch and set her on his mom’s reading chair under the awning. Next, he hurried to gather all the balloons. He knew he had to hurry; Mom would check on him soon. Coming up with a plan, Henry braided the many strings together. He had learned to weave yarn into keychains in art class at school, but this was taking longer than he thought. Finally, he gathered the strings and securely tied them to Precious’s harness. The cat gave one uncertain mewl as she floated to the ceiling. Jumping up and down with excitement, Henry pulled his creation from the porch. A breeze caught the kitty bouquet, and Precious rose three feet… five… then drifted over the garden fence like a smug feline zeppelin.

Still on her business call, Mom heard Henry’s delighted shriek through the window. Alarmed and wondering what her child had gotten himself into this time, she excused herself with a frozen smile and raced outside. In disbelief, she watched, horrified, as her tabby drifted toward the neighbor’s oak tree like a Valentine parade gone rogue. She sprinted to the garage, grabbed a rake, while Henry cheered like a crazed aerospace engineer. Dashing out of their yard and into her neighbor’s garden, she finally snagged the balloon strings before Precious made her precarious ascent to parts unknown and used one of her nine lives in this crazy, madcap scheme.

Sighing with relief, Mom tucked Precious into one arm, thankful that her tabby was only mildly offended. Grabbing the balloons with the other hand, she pulled them into the house, setting Precious on the floor, she then stowed the confiscated balloons in the master bedroom. Taking a deep breath, she returned to her meeting somewhat disheveled, offering the understatement: “Sorry, I got momentarily tangled in a tiny bit of mischief.”


Later that afternoon, Henry was gently schooled on aerodynamics and consent, and he promised never to use Precious in any more science experiments. For the rest of the afternoon, Precious moved from room to room with Mom, careful to avoid Henry like the plague.

As evening approached, Mom began to prepare Henry’s favorite spaghetti dinner. Precious returned to her spot on the windowsill, and Mom sighed, relieved that everything had turned out okay.

Turning her attention back to Henry, she walked over to the kitchen table to see what he was coloring. Her eyes widened. He was drawing a picture titled “Precious Goes to Space,” complete with thrusters, stars, and a very alarmed tabby in a helmet. 

That was all she needed to see.

Terrified at the thought of a sequel to the morning’s escapade, without a word, Mom pivoted toward the drawer, grabbed the grilling fork like a warrior choosing her weapon, and marched into her bedroom. Moments later, behind the closed door, came the rapid-fire pop-pop-pop-pop that sounded suspiciously like a small artillery battle. The baolloons had met their necessary but dramatic end.

When she finally returned—hair mussed, dignity slightly punctured—Henry stared up at her with wide eyes.

“Are the balloons… gone?” he asked.

““They’ve ascended,” she said solemnly. “To a better place.”

Henry frowned, thinking this over. “So… no more experiments with Precious?”

“No,” Mom said. “Not unless Precious submits a written consent form and signs it with a paw print.”

Mom let out a breath that came from somewhere deep in her soul. As the house settled into its evening quiet, Mom caught sight of a single, limp balloon ribbon hanging from the trash can. She shook her head, part exhausted, part amused.

Today, she’d learned a valuable truth: in a house with a six-year-old scientist, anything with helium, fur, or legs was officially at risk.

And Henry? He learned something too—every great inventor needs two things: big ideas… and a mom with very fast reflexes.

Note:

If Henry’s balloon adventure made you smile, don’t float away just yet—tap the Follow Button, leave a comment, or share your own kid-powered chaos below!

Prompt:

Write a story about this image.



Grandma’s Chocolate Oatmeal Cookie Tradition

Published on by Ann Marie Bryant2 Comments

All favorite family recipes begin with a pinch of joy, a heaping spoonful of love, and generous amounts of laughter. That’s how our family’s Chocolate Oatmeal Cookie recipe came together. The warm scent of cocoa wafted through Grandma’s home, and we all knew she had made our favorite treat. Our Chocolate Oatmeal Cookie recipe is more than just a dessert; it is a cherished tradition that connects generations through love, laughter, and shared memories.


As a child, I remember Grandma creating these treats for her grandchildren. Her cozy cottage kitchen was warm and cheerful, the perfect gathering place for lively conversations, games of Chinese Checkers, and sweet indulgences. The air was filled with laughter and music, as she adored the Grand Ole Opry and country tunes. Mom also made these cookies after inheriting the recipe. It’s amusing how these treats still remind me of the two women I cherished most, of happy childhood memories, of the love we shared, and of the special moments we embraced as a family.


Of course, my younger brother, David, had a particular fondness for these cookies; they were his favorite. As soon as he came home from school, he recognized the scent the moment he walked through the back door. Sometimes, before the cookies had a chance to cool and harden, David would sneak a spoon and carefully scoop a cookie from the tinfoil lining the kitchen table. Mom always chuckled; it was their special thing. David and Chocolate Oatmeal Cookies became part of his identity, a shared joke, and a source of joy. Even in his older years, his Christmas list always included his beloved Chocolate Oatmeal Cookies.


Mama also made these cookies for special occasions, but she often prepared them for after-school surprises. Many rainy afternoons, I would come home to Mama’s cozy yellow kitchen, the air rich with warm chocolate and sweet vanilla. We would sit on the couch, curl up under a blanket, and enjoy our treat. Those sweet mother-and-daughter moments were filled with conversations about school days and friends. Basking in her warmth, they became precious reminders of her love and care—memories that grow dearer with time.


As time passes, those cookies have become more than just a treat; they are a link to my family and the memories of my grandma, Mama, and my brother David. Although we’ve grown up, the smell of those cookies makes us feel like kids again, transporting us back to a time when a mother took time from her busy schedule to create a sweet treat she knew her children would enjoy. Hopefully, this family recipe will continue to be passed down from generation to generation, for after all, every family requires a little magic and sweetness.

No-Bake Chocolate Oatmeal Cookies

Ingredients:

  • 1/2 cup butter or margarine, cut into 1-tablespoon pieces so it melts faster
  • 1/2 cup unsweetened cocoa powder
  • 2 cups sugar
  • 1/2 cup milk
  • 3 cups quick-cooking oats
  • 1/2 cup creamy peanut butter
  • 1 1/2 teaspoons vanilla extract

Instructions :

  • In a large saucepan, combine the butter or margarine, cocoa powder, sugar, and milk,
  • Stir well and bring to a boil over medium heat. Boil for 90 seconds, stirring occasionally.
  • Remove from the heat and stir in the oats, peanut butter, and vanilla.
  • Drop by heaping tablespoonfuls onto baking sheets lined with wax paper or parchment paper. Let cool to set.

Set a timer and be sure to boil the chocolate mixture for precisely 90 seconds. If you don’t boil long enough, the cookies may not harden. If you boil them too long, they will be dry.

What’s your favorite twist on the no bake cookies? And if you make this recipe, be sure to let me know how they turned out.

Breaking and Entering

Published on by Ann Marie Bryant4 Comments

Stepping outside to grab the mail, Ellie barely sets foot on the front porch when she hears the quiet but unmistakable click of the locked door. The elderly lady, with her hair in a messy grey bun, glasses dangling precariously on her nose, and wearing mismatched slippers, groans. “Oh, for heaven’s sake!” Ellie hollers, realizing her keys are once again inside the house. Her back twinges, her ankle throbs, and her patience evaporates.

“Old woman, you sure do know how to get yourself into the darndest messes,” she mutters, shaking her head. “When are you finally going to hide a key outdoors? It’s not like this hasn’t happened before, many times before. And walking is a chore already, let alone breaking and entering into your own home, for pity’s sake.” She continues lecturing herself about aging and “situational stupidity” as she limps toward the garage.

The late morning air warms her, but the fragrant scent from the honeysuckle vine wrapping over her back fence does nothing to alleviate her agitation. She scoots along the path. At least the side door is unlocked. She exhales in relief and slips inside, whispering a silent prayer that the kitchen door might be unlocked too. She rattles the knob.

No such luck.

On the other side, her two dogs, Franke and Molly, explode into a frenzy of barking, convinced an intruder is trying to breach their domain.”Hush, now! I don’t need to hear all your yapping,” she snaps, prompting them to bark even louder. Ignoring the canine chaos of her miniature dachshunds, Ellie scans the garage and spots the dusty ladder leaning against the wall. It seems to stare back at her in judgment. “Yeah, I know,” she grumbles. “This is how hip replacements begin.”

Determined, she hoists the ladder, triggering an instant sneezing fit as dust clouds fill the air. “Judas Priest!” she hollers when she finishes.

Balancing the ladder on one shoulder, she clumsily hauls it out to the backyard. She remembers leaving her bedroom window cracked open last night for fresh air—her one stroke of luck today. Halfway across the yard, she sets the ladder down and wheezes. “Oh, blazes! I need to start walking again. But come on, old girl, you’ve got this. And hey, if ya croak, at least you’ll look productive.” She laughs at her own joke, only to start wheezing again.

Finally reaching the window, she slides it open. Molly and Frankie barrel into the bedroom, nails tapping on the hardwood floors, and barking as if reporting a home invasion. They skid to a stop when Ellie’s face appears over the windowsill, tails wagging so hard their whole bodies wiggle.

“You might want to stay back,” she warns them. “This could go sideways in a hurry.”

She positions the ladder beside the window and gives it a good shake. “Seems sturdy enough,” she declares, trying to sound braver than she feels. After all, what could possibly go wrong? Just a sixty-something-year-old woman about to reenact a cat burglar scene.

“Oh, suck it up, Buttercup,” she coaches herself. “Climb the ladder, slide one foot over, straddle the sill, then ease inside. Voila! Home free!”

She wishes she felt as confident as she sounded. Taking a deep breath, she starts climbing; the old ladder creaks with each step, and her ancient muscles protest with every rung. “Traitors,” she mutters under her breath.

At the right height, she braces herself and slides one leg through the opening. She refuses to look down; falling is not on the agenda today. Just as she shifts her weight, the ladder wobbles and crashes to the ground. Ellie drops onto the sill with a graceless thump.

“Oh, I am going to pay for this later,” she groans, but relief washes over her.

Once her heart settles, she edges one foot toward the bedroom floor. She’s just starting to steady herself when she feels a tug on her pant leg. Frankie decides her cuff looks like a chew toy. “No! Frankie!” she yelps, but it’s too late. Her foot slips, and she lands on the floor with all the grace of a falling laundry bag. The dogs rush in, showering her with kisses, thrilled that their mom is home safe after her harrowing self-induced break-in. Wheezing again, Ellie tries to catch her breath. As her heart rate slows and her breathing returns to normal, she pats her pups, stares up at the ceiling, and reconsiders her recent life choices. She is increasingly convinced she has some sort of death wish.

Once she recovers, Ellie decides she’s had enough excitement for the day, maybe even for the week. Slowly, she gets on her knees and crawls to her bed. Using the bedpost as support, she pulls her achy body up and slumps across the comforter. Although she doesn’t want to move, she decides to change back into her pajamas. This was a day better spent in bed. She kicks off her slippers, and Molly chases the red flannel one that slides under the bed. Going into the master bathroom, she quickly changes into her nightie and then returns to her room and climbs under the covers. The pups scramble up the ramp, nails tapping, and settle beside her. She turns on the TV and contentedly sighs as her head hits the pillow.

Ding dong.

She freezes. “No, no, no. You’ve got to be kidding. Maybe they’ll go away.”

The bell rings twice more, followed by urgent pounding. Ellie groans, climbs out of bed, and slips on her robe. She can’t find her slippers and figures the Muttley Crew must have hidden them somewhere in the house. Grumbling, she trudges to the door in her bare feet. Peeking through the peephole, she spots two uniformed police officers.

Of course. She exhales loudly, opens the door, and the officers give her a cautious once-over.

“Ma’am, we got a report of a break-in at this address,” the older officer explains.

Frankie and Molly erupt in barking again, so Ellie steps outside and shuts the door behind her.

“You’re looking at the culprit,” she says. “I’d appreciate it if you list it as ‘attempted.’ I barely made it in.”

The officers stifle smiles. One gestures toward her nosy neighbor, Mrs. Agatha, across the street, who annoyingly waves. Of course, her neighbor is dressed in her Sunday-go-to-meetin’ clothes.

Ellie waves back, but not before pulling her robe closer, trying to hide that she is in her nightie at this time of day. “Oh, Lord, the neighbors will talk,” she thinks to herself.

Interrupting her thoughts, the older officer says, “Your neighbor was worried. She saw someone climbing through your window.”

Ellie deadpans, “Next time, tell her to call me first. I could use the encouragement when I’m breaking into my own home.

Laughing, the older officer hands her a card and gently suggests hiding a key.

“I’m on it,” she promises, thanking them for checking on her.

She watches them drive off, eager to return to her peaceful afternoon.

She reaches for the doorknob.

It doesn’t budge.

She jiggles it again.

“Oh, Sweet Mary and Jooooseph…!”