When I brought my fiancé Ronaldo home at 28, grandma was waiting in her usual spot, with her knitting needles clicking like time itself was being woven.
“So,” she said as she put aside a half-finished scarf. “This is the young man who makes my Hailey’s eyes sparkle.”
“Mrs…” Ronaldo started.
“Just Patricia,” she corrected as she looked at him over her reading glasses. “Or Patty, if you earn it.”
“Grandma, please be nice,” I pleaded.
“Hailey, dear, would you mind making us some of your grandfather’s special tea? I think Ronaldo and I need to have a little chat.”
I knew better than to argue. As I made the tea, I could hear their muffled voices through the kitchen door. When I came back with the tray, Ronaldo was smiling, and grandma had a twinkle in her eye.
“He’s a keeper, sweet pea,” she whispered as I sat down next to her.
I was so caught up in my own life – planning a wedding, building a career – that I didn’t notice how tired grandma was getting. Her hands trembled a little more when she knitted, and her eyesight wasn’t as sharp. But she still made it to every family gathering, always with a kind word and a warm smile.
Then, one day, she was gone. The funeral was a blur. I felt like a part of me had been ripped away. But I remembered her dying wish.
A year passed, and I found myself standing in the cemetery on a cool autumn day. The leaves were turning, and the air was crisp. I took a deep breath and approached grandma’s grave. Her headstone was simple, with her name and dates engraved. And there was the photo frame, a little dirty from the rain and wind.
I took out a cloth and some cleaner and started to carefully clean the frame. As I lifted it off to clean the back, I noticed a small envelope taped to the headstone. My heart skipped a beat. I knew it was from grandma.
