I grew up in her house because my mother passed away when I was five. As for my biological father, Grandma told me he had left before I was born and never came back. That was all I ever knew.
She never went into more detail, and I learned early not to push. Whenever I tried, her hands would freeze, and her eyes would drift somewhere far away.
She was my entire world, so I let it go.
As I got older, I moved to the city and built a life for myself. But every weekend, without fail, I drove back to see her. Home was wherever she was.
Then Ryan proposed, and suddenly everything felt brighter than it ever had before.
Grandma Helen cried when he slipped the ring onto my finger—happy tears she didn’t even try to hide because she was laughing at the same time.
“I’ve been waiting for this since the day I first held you,” she said, gripping my hands.
Ryan and I started planning the wedding, and Grandma had opinions about everything. That meant phone calls every other day—and I cherished every one of them.
Four months later, she was gone.
She passed quietly in her sleep from a heart attack, well into her nineties. The doctor said she likely didn’t feel much.