Not money. Not jewellery. Not one of the expensive things that filled the Austin house.

A cookie.

It was sitting on a tray in the kitchen at Spadina, still warm, and I had been looking at it for what I considered a very reasonable amount of time.

I was a boy.

The cookie was unattended.

What happened next was really the cookie’s fault.

I took it.

“Jim!”

I ran.

The cook came after me.

I knew the kitchen well. My father was the Austin family’s chauffeur, and we lived above the garage. The kitchen, the yard, the garage and the places behind the grand rooms were my world.

And I knew something else.

Adults might have longer legs, but they also had responsibilities.

I had none.

“Jim! Come back!”

I ran faster.

I turned one corner, then another, laughing, the evidence still in my hand.

Then I made a mistake.

I went too far.

I crossed into a part of Spadina where I was not supposed to be.

I stopped.

The room looked nothing like the kitchen.

Everything seemed to shine. Fine furniture filled the room. Pictures hung on the walls. Above me was an enormous gasolier, its crystals catching the light.

For a few seconds, I forgot about the cookie.

Then a hand landed on my shoulder.

“Got you.”

I turned.

The cook was breathing hard.

I hid the cookie behind my back.

She looked at me, then at the room.

“You know you cannot come in here.”

I looked around.

“Why can’t I come here?”

“Because this is the family’s part of the house.”

“What family?”

She gave me a look.

“The Austins.”

I pointed upward.

“Did they buy that too?”

“The gasolier?”

I nodded.

She looked at it.

“Yes. Things like that mattered to them. Fine furniture. Paintings. Beautiful objects.”

“Why?”

“Because they could afford them.”

That seemed like a very good reason to me.

She sat down, perhaps deciding that catching a boy was easier than dragging one back to the kitchen.

“This house belonged to James Austin before any of us were here,” she said. “He bought Spadina in 1866.”

“Was he rich?”

“Eventually.”

That word interested me.

“Eventually?”

“He came to Canada when he was young. When he was about your age—well, a little older—he wasn’t living like this.”

I looked around again.

“What did he do?”

“He worked as a printer’s apprentice for William Lyon Mackenzie.”

I knew adults liked important names, so I nodded as if William Lyon Mackenzie and I had recently had lunch together.

She continued.

“Later, Austin went into business. He was clever with money. He made good decisions, worked his way into Toronto’s business circles and became very successful.”

“How successful?”

She pointed around us.

“This successful.”

That answered the question.

“He became involved in banking, insurance and the Consumers’ Gas Company. He became the first president of the Dominion Bank.”

I looked up at the gasolier again.

“So he sold gas?”

“It’s a little more complicated than that.”

“Did the gas make that light work?”

“Yes.”

“Then he sold gas.”

She sighed.

I had won.

When James Austin bought Spadina, she explained, this part of Toronto was very different. It was almost countryside, high above the growing city.

Then Toronto grew.

The city came closer and closer to Spadina.

And Austin grew with it.

His businesses were connected to that changing Toronto. Banks, insurance, gas. By the time he had established himself here, the teenager who had once worked in a printing shop could surround himself with some of the finest things Toronto could offer.

I looked at the gasolier.

“So that was his?”

“Yes.”

“Do you like it?”

She looked up.

“It’s beautiful.”

“Do you want one?”

She laughed.

“Where would I put it?”

“In your room.”

That made her laugh harder.

“You haven’t seen my room, have you?”

I shook my head.

She became quieter.

My father could be married. He could have a family. That was why I could live at Spadina at all.

For the women, things were different.

The cook explained that women in domestic service lived with rules that followed them beyond their working hours. Marriage could mean giving up their position. Boyfriends could not simply come and visit. And when the family needed something, even late at night, the women were already inside the house and available.

“So you can’t get married?”

“Not if I want to keep this job.”

“That’s silly.”

She smiled.

“My friends have gone to work in shops and factories,” she said. “The work can be hard there too. Very hard. But when their workday ends, they leave.”

“And you?”

She glanced toward the ceiling.

“I am already home.”

I thought about that.

Then I looked toward the doorway through which I had entered.

“So I can’t come into this room.”

“No.”

“And you can?”

“When I’m needed.”

“But it’s not your room.”

“No.”

“And upstairs isn’t really your house.”

“No.”

“And you can’t leave whenever you want.”

“Now you’re beginning to understand.”

I considered this carefully.

“So we’re both in trouble?”

She smiled.

“You stole a cookie. Don’t make us equals.”

I remembered the cookie.

It was still behind my back.

She glanced at it, then at me.

I slowly brought it out from behind my back.

“Do I have to?”

She stared at me for a moment.

Then she pointed toward the doorway.

“Now go back to the kitchen.”

I nodded.

“And put that cookie back where you found it.”

I looked at the cookie.

Then at her.

“Back in the kitchen?”

“Yes, Jim.”

“Fine,” I said. “I’ll go back.”

And I did.

It just took me almost a century.

I am ninety-three years old now.

A lot can happen while a boy is on his way back to a kitchen.

The Austins are gone. The servants are gone. My father no longer lives above the garage. The cook is no longer upstairs, waiting in a house that was both her workplace and, in a strange way, her home.

And Spadina is no longer a private family house.

It is a museum.

So when I returned, nobody ran after me.

Nobody caught me by the shoulder.

Nobody pointed toward the kitchen and told me that I had crossed into the wrong part of the house.

At ninety-three, I can walk through the rooms that were once forbidden to me.

I can look at the furniture.

I can stand beneath the great gasolier.

I can wander through the part of Spadina that once belonged only to the Austin family.

And I can even stand there holding a photograph of myself as a child and have another photograph taken.

The little boy and the older man, together in the same house.

One of them knew exactly where he was allowed to go.

The other no longer needed to ask.

So yes, I kept my promise.

I went back.

It just took me a little longer than the cook probably expected.

Almost a century after stealing a cookie, I returned to the scene of the crime.

And this time, I was free to go anywhere in the house.

I only had one disappointment.

I never found out what happened to the cookie.

YF, August 24, 2026

Note: This story was shaped through a conversation with Alexandra Kim, Administrator at Spadina Museum, Museums and Heritage Services, and draws on historical information, photographs, and stories connected to the Austin family and the people who lived and worked at Spadina.

Some scenes and conversations, including the cookie, the chase, and Jim’s exchange with the cook, are imagined narrative elements inspired by historical fragments shared during our conversation.

The people, the house, and the larger history are real; I have brought some of these scattered pieces together through storytelling.