Home.

The first time, it happened to Sheldon.

He was out on his longboard, returning home from his drum lesson when he saw her:  Grandma driving down the street.

The second time, it happened in the paint store.  I was there picking colours for our mini-reno and, all of sudden, standing beside me, choosing her own colours, was my mom.

It was back in February that she put her house on the market.  After what felt like a lifetime, she finally sold her house and bought a new (to her) house just minutes from us.

Moving weekend was the first of September and we celebrated with a family dinner at our local Japanese restaurant.  She brought champagne for afterwards.  We toasted to the stress that was now behind her, her new beginning in our small town, and all the projects and challenges that lay before her in her new home.

We helped her rip up carpet, strip wallpaper, change locks, do a little painting, and clean.  In exchange she has made us dinner, carpooled Juliana, and lent us stuff.  We've had company for the Studio Tour and our town's street party and a local youth concert.

It's weird running into her.  But it's a great kind of weird.  It means we get more moments like this one:

Welcome home, Mom.  Welcome home.