“I’m mad too,” I admitted. “At Beckett, at everything.”
We laughed at how ridiculous—and alike—we sounded.
As her strength returned, I busied myself with repairs around the house. One morning, I found an envelope tucked in the cast iron pan under a stack of old clippings. It was a letter from Grandpa Eustace—written for their 40th anniversary. His words were shaky but raw and full of promise: he would fight for her every day.
When I gave it to her, she held it like a relic. Then the tears came—her first since the stroke.
That letter showed me what I’d missed. Beckett hadn’t fought. He had walked away. And that said more about him than it ever did about me.
A few weeks later, I met Aksel near the tomatoes at the farmer’s market. He was a carpenter—kind eyes, work-worn hands. We kept bumping into each other, until one day he offered to fix Grandma’s porch railing. She liked him immediately.
“You look at that man like he’s the last cookie on the tray,” she teased.
I tried to argue. But she wasn’t wrong.
Aksel came to dinner, listened to her stories, shared his own. We spent evenings talking on the porch. When he told me I was strong—and that taking care of someone so naturally was beautiful—I felt something begin to mend inside me.
Then Beckett reappeared.
He showed up with a bouquet and a flood of regret. Promises. Apologies. Pleas.
Once, I might’ve crumbled. But I looked at Grandma dozing in her chair and thought about the letter.
Real love doesn’t leave. It endures.
So I let him go.
That night, as the rain tapped gently on the roof, Aksel just held my hand. Said nothing. Stayed.
