I wanted to yell. Instead, I said I missed her. And in that moment, something heavy finally slid off my shoulders.
When I got home, Grandma noticed the tear tracks but didn’t ask. She just hugged me.
“Healing’s never tidy,” she said. “But you’re doing it.”
That night, we had breakfast for dinner. Bacon crisping in the cast iron pan, stories flowing between bites. She showed me how to tilt the pan to let the grease coat the surface. Told me about Grandpa Eustace dancing barefoot in that very kitchen.
And just like that, I realized: love isn’t always in roses or proposals. Sometimes, it’s bacon on a Thursday night.
The next morning, I found Grandma staring at her skillet like she didn’t recognize it—or me. She said she felt dizzy. As I tried to help her stand, her knees gave out.
At the clinic, the doctor said dehydration might be the culprit, but they ordered tests just in case. Sitting in that beige waiting room, fear gripped me. Just when my life had started to rebuild—was I about to lose the one person who held it all together?
It turned out to be a mild stroke. She would recover. Still, that night, I sat alone in her kitchen, fingers trailing across the cast iron’s worn surface, thinking of all the meals and quiet grief it had known.
The weeks blurred—appointments, exercises, and her stubborn defiance. She tossed her cane across the room more than once. I picked it up every time and sat next to her on the porch.
“I’m mad at my body,” she told me.
