This summer marked the first time that Kende and Kíra stayed alone at my parents’ house by Lake Balaton, where they reside during the warmer months.

For as long as I can remember, we’ve spent our summers in the Káli Basin, nestled among the vineyards—an estate my paternal grandfather inherited almost seventy years ago. This place not only holds my children’s memories but also the enduring recollections of my father’s and my own childhood. Thirty years ago, we lit our way with oil lamps, took showers using watering cans, and relied on an outhouse. Water was drawn from the well, and we slept in a crumbling cellar—some on benches, others on tables, and still others on the creaky, musty camping cots that whispered stories of the past. Over the years, however, the house has been transformed into a modern refuge, with everyone enjoying their own private rooms, mirroring the increasing estrangement of the world around us. My children know only the comforts of this place, where my mother greets us with delicious home-cooked meals, and I, at long last, can rest.

Kende’s first encounter with this place occurred during a late spring, when he was but an infant, still held in the crook of my arm. The moment his curious eyes met the land, with its newly whitewashed house, he surveyed it with an unusual intensity for one so young. After a thorough examination, he offered a solitary, knowing nod, accompanied by a smile—one that seemed borrowed from an old soul—approving the changes my father had made over the past five decades. Through his efforts, this humble, decaying wine cottage had been transformed into a charming farmhouse that blends seamlessly with the countryside. Even as a toddler, Kende delighted in being here, eagerly cracking walnuts and stumbling through the vineyard. Since childhood, he’s had a special affinity for the work that surrounds this garden, and in recent years, he has become a dedicated helper to my father. Initially, he watched the tractor with wide eyes from a safe distance, but over time, he gained the courage to climb aboard. Last year, he even took on the responsibility of mowing the lawn—entirely on his own. Whether he’s grown tall enough to do so or not, it no longer matters.

When we stay here for the summer, my mother’s bountiful tables are always paired with my father’s fine wine. As for the children, my mother has long offered them alcohol-free beer. They don’t have this luxury at home, for I am a firm advocate of a sugar-free lifestyle. As such, they hold the rare “kid-free beer”—as Kende has come to call it—in high esteem. This year, Kíra reached her eighteenth birthday, and we offered her wine, to which she swiftly took a liking. With that, the “kid-free beer” was relegated to the past, not only for her, but for Kende as well, who now enjoys a spritzer with the adults (one part wine, the rest soda—but still!).