“Not for me, but for you. So you’ll know I was there.”
I promised her without hesitation. I didn’t understand what she meant by truths fitting better when you’re grown, but I let it go.
I grew up in her house because my mother died when I was five. My biological father had supposedly walked out before I was born and never looked back.
Grandma never elaborated, and I learned young not to push. Whenever I tried, her hands would go still and her eyes would look somewhere far away.
She was my whole world, so I let it be. I grew up, moved to the city, and built a life, but I drove back every weekend without fail.
And then Wells proposed, making everything the brightest it had ever been. Grandma cried full, happy tears when Wells put the ring on my finger.
She grabbed both my hands.
“I’ve been waiting for this since the day I held you.”
Wells and I started planning the wedding, and Grandma had opinions about every single detail. Four months later, she was suddenly gone.
It was a heart attack, quiet and fast, in her own bed. The doctor said she wouldn’t have felt much, which I told myself was something to be grateful for.
