At her funeral, everyone brought flowers. I brought the box, untouched except for the ribbon I’d retied. When it was my turn to speak, I placed it beside her photo.
“I didn’t come here to talk about loss,” I said. “I came to talk about love—the quiet kind. The kind that doesn’t ask for attention or thanks.”
There wasn’t a dry eye in the room.
After the service, relatives came up to me, ashamed, murmuring things like “I meant to reply” or “I didn’t think it was urgent.” But Grandma had always been like that—never wanting to burden anyone, even when she needed help.
Her generation had a quiet kind of strength. They endured. They gave. Even when no one was looking.
That night, I placed her sketchbooks on my desk. I opened the first one. On the inside cover, in faded pencil, she’d written:
“Stories never die, sweetheart. They just wait for someone brave enough to tell them.”
So I made her a promise.
I vowed to finish the book she never got to write—the one she’d talked about for years, the story she started but never shared.
Every night after work, I sat down with her sketchbooks and began writing. At first, it was fragments—lines inspired by her stories, sketches of her favorite scenes. Slowly, it grew into something more.
I started seeing her everywhere—in the scent of old paper, the way sunlight hit my desk, the whistle of the kettle just before she’d say, “Tea’s ready, darling.”
And one evening, as I turned the final page of her notebook, I realized: the story I’d been writing wasn’t just hers. It was mine too.Continue reading…
