ent to college on scholarships, got a job in marketing, and bought a small house near Grandma’s cottage. I dated, sometimes seriously, but relationships were hard.
Trust didn’t come easily when my own mother couldn’t love me.
Grandma was my rock through everything. She never missed a graduation, a birthday, or a milestone. She hung my college diploma next to her achievements.
She made sure I knew I belonged.
But time is relentless. My grandmother, my true parent, grew older too. Her hands became gnarled with arthritis, her steps slower, and her memory was sometimes foggy.
“Remember when you tried to teach me to bake cookies and we set off the smoke alarm?” I asked one afternoon as we walked in her beloved garden.
She laughed, the sound still musical despite her 78 years.
“The neighbors thought the house was on fire. That fireman was so handsome, though… I almost didn’t mind the embarrassment.”
“You flirted with him shamelessly,” I teased.
“Life’s too short not to flirt with handsome firemen, Rebecca.” She patted my hand.
“Promise me something?”
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