The One Place My Daughter and I Get Along

Here's what finally made us see eye-to-eye.

By

Lorraine Duffy Merkl

 
Published April 09, 2026
Alamy

Fashion. Celebrity hot topics. TV shows. Travel. Trendy New York City restaurants. My 28-year-old daughter Meg and I like many of the same things and have a lot in common. Unfortunately, I must add being headstrong to the list. We both really like getting our own way.

Even though Meg has her own apartment (I am her landlord), when we’re under the same roof — hers or mine — almost anything can become a battle of wills.

I never thought I’d see the day when this wouldn't be the case until last autumn, when a cleaning frenzy unearthed my childhood dollhouse.

As I was ridding our home of decades-old items we didn’t use or even remember we had, I decided that my two-story, six-room miniature home, purchased for me in 1964 by my late aunt at FAO Schwarz, was ready for the garbage heap.

Although I had loved it when I was in kindergarten, by the time I was about 10 or so, it became more of a display piece (aka dust collector). As I entered high school, my dollhouse was just in my way.

My late mother boxed it up and stored it until 2001, when she downsized her living situation. The tiny home went from the back of one of her closets in the Bronx to the back of one of mine in Manhattan. (Somewhere in that shuffle, all the little furniture got lost or thrown out — probably the latter, since that’s how little interest I had in it.)

I thought of bringing it out of “retirement” when Meg turned six, the age I was when I received it. But she was heavily into Barbie and more interested in the fashion doll’s Dream House and its pink accoutrements. I let my old toy remain out of sight and out of mind.

When I added it to the discard pile, Neil, my husband of 37 years, suggested I first investigate to see if it was worth saving.

My neighbor, Eliza, a dollhouse expert who’s written books on the collectibles, was more than happy to step in.

“Restore, don’t renovate,” she advised, adding that all my little home needed — much to my embarrassment — was a good cleaning, not a gut renovation (my original assumption). She also told me where to buy dollhouse furniture online in bundles to save money on shipping.

Eliza even suggested that I involve Meg in the miniature redecorating project, which is what she’d do if she had a daughter.

I admit, Eliza’s words renewed my interest in my one-time plaything, but I wasn’t yet sold on taking on a partner, fearing this small-scale version of HGTV's Fixer Upper would be yet another thing for Meg and me to challenge each other over.

I shared what our neighbor said and was surprised by Neil and Meg’s enthusiasm.

Neil thought we should display our empty second home right away — after the good cleaning. While he was pointing out places in the apartment to show it off, Meg was on eBay and Etsy picking out furnishings, including mini coffee mugs and floral arrangements.

After Neil was told in no uncertain terms that the dollhouse would not have a designated man cave replete with a bar and wall-sized TV, he bowed out and left the rest of the collaborating to Meg and me.

And so, two people who could not see eye-to-eye on the decorating choices when we transitioned Meg’s pink and white childhood bedroom to something more teenage as she entered high school, embarked on filling our tiny house with tiny furniture.

As we played amateur interior designers, it took getting used to how easily we agreed on color schemes for each room and oohed and aahed at the same small-scale chair or fireplace.

I did a double take at Meg’s immediate compliance when I suggested that we furnish each room before we added touches like wall art, as well as microscopic vases and dishes. When I agreed without judgment with her suggestion to accent a room in her favorite color — Elle Woods pink — Meg looked at me like, “You’re a very nice lady, but what have you done with my mother?”

All this harmony did not go unnoticed by Neil, who mockingly felt both our foreheads to see if we were feverish and suffering from some kind of delirium.

As it’s unlikely that an actual Honey, I Shrunk the Kids moment will allow us to live in the dollhouse, I’m hoping that the peace we’ve found sharing our small-scale hobby will carry forward in our full-scale, day-to-day life.

Lorraine Duffy Merkl is a journalist in NYC and the author of three novels, the latest titled “The Last Single Woman in New York City.”