“Have you packed your things? It’s summertime, and beginning tomorrow you’ll be staying with your grandma again for a couple of months.” That was my mother.

Oh my, another summer devoid of excitement. I’ll be like a bird again, caged in our ancestral house in the province with my strict, no-nonsense grandma. In the military, soldiers obey first before complaining. With my grandma, it’s obey always — never complain. Back to the dark ages: no cellphone, no internet, but plenty of household chores and yard work.

A few minutes later, my father arrived home from work. He went straight to my parents’ bedroom. I sensed trouble. Normally, the moment he walked in, he’d plant a kiss on my mom’s cheek and demand the tightest hug from me.

“Mom, what’s the matter?” I asked. My mom shrugged and said, “I really don’t know. He’s probably just tired. Come, let’s go talk to him.”

My dad was lying on the bed, still in his office clothes, staring blankly at the ceiling. Mom sat on the right side of the bed; I sat on the left. It took a while before Mom convinced him to talk. What he told us left both of us speechless. Their company had declared bankruptcy, and he was out of a job. I understood immediately what that meant for us — no more allowance without a second thought, no more easy comforts. Maybe worse.

When Mom found her voice again, she said, “Well, life has to go on. You’ll find another job. In the meantime, our savings will get us through.” My dad sat up and put his arms around her. He told her he was sorry — sorry for not telling her he’d used our savings to buy stocks in the company, the way some of the other employees did, hoping it would save their jobs. It didn’t work. Mom pulled away from him. “How could you do that?” she said. “Why didn’t you tell me? What’s going to happen to us now?”

The words got louder after that. I watched my parents pull away from each other right in front of me. I couldn’t just sit there. “Mom, Dad — please, stop.” It was the first time I had ever raised my voice at them. I felt bad about it, but I didn’t know what else to do. They both turned and looked at me. I walked over, took their hands, and put them together. Then I told them we should kneel down and pray. They hesitated, but they did it. I led the prayer.

“God… we have a big problem. Daddy lost his job. But we still have each other, right? We lost some money, and maybe we’ll lose things — I don’t know, maybe even this house — but I don’t care about that. What I care about is that I still have my dad. I still have my mom. We’re okay, we’re healthy, and — and we still have You. Grandma always tells me You love us, that You never leave us, that when things get hard, You’re still there. Please don’t let us fall apart. In Jesus’ name, amen.”

(pause — let the silence sit)

Nobody said anything for a moment. Then Mom and Dad both wrapped their arms around me. They apologized — to me, and I think to each other too. After a while, I stepped out of the room. I figured they needed to talk things through on their own.

I sat outside on the stairs for a long time, replaying the whole afternoon in my head — Dad’s blank stare, Mom’s raised voice, the sound of a house I thought was safe suddenly not feeling that way. And somewhere in that quiet, I started thinking about Grandma. About all those summers I complained about.

Even with maids in the house, Grandma always made me sweep floors, wash dishes, pull weeds in the yard. She taught me to spend money carefully. To live simply, even when we didn’t have to. I used to think it was just her being strict for no reason. Now I understood. If we ever had to let our maids go, I’d be ready. If we had to live simply until Dad found work again, I’d already know how. Grandma had been preparing me for this all along, without either of us knowing it.

I remembered, too, how she made me pray — every morning, every night, before every meal, and pretty much anytime in between. “Everything else can fail you,” she always said, “but never God’s love.”

(small smile)

Funny — I actually got excited thinking about spending another summer with her. I can’t wait to see her.