I spent more time at Grandma Jen’s house than my own. My parents, always busy with work, left me in her cozy cottage with its creaky porch and lavender scent — it felt like safety.
Grandma braided my hair, read me only the funny parts of the paper, and fed me simple, warm meals she just knew how to make. Every night she gave me a bowl of walnuts, saying they’d make my heart stronger — and she genuinely cared for me through my congenital heart issues.
As I grew up and my life became about wealth, luxury, and status, I drifted away. Grandma’s home felt old and boring. I even insulted her cottage’s smell once, and she just gently corrected me.
She always called weekly with her same loving reminders — “Be kind, sweetheart.” But I answered distractedly and rarely said I loved her.
At my lavish wedding, I reluctantly invited her. She arrived in a simple dress holding a worn bag of walnuts as her gift. Ashamed, I snapped at her in front of everyone and sent her away. She didn’t argue.
She kept calling, but I stopped answering.
Months later, she died. At her funeral, memories of her comfort overwhelmed me. Grief drove me to rush home, but I crashed my car. In the hospital, I begged for the walnut bag. Inside each nut was a note with her love, wisdom, and even saved money she tucked away for me — showing she believed in me even when I rejected her.
When I finally read the last note — “It’s never too late to choose love” — I wept and apologized.
Once home, I cooked simple food like she used to make — buttery potatoes, eggs, and sausages — and felt her presence in it. In sharing that quiet meal with my husband, I finally let love and grief exist together.