We always thought it was just her thing.
Every night, like clockwork at 7:00 p.m., Grandma Ina pours herself a single glass of wine—same green goblet, same chair, no matter the occasion. Birthdays, holidays, even tornado warnings—nothing interrupts the ritual. She’s 105 now. Still sharp. Still stubborn. Still arching one judgmental eyebrow at my choices, taking a quiet sip as if it says more than words ever could.
Last night, it was just the two of us. No background noise. No distractions. The kind of quiet that invites honesty.
So I asked her, “Why do you do it? The wine. What’s it really about?”
She paused, glass frozen halfway to her lips. For a moment, I thought she hadn’t heard me. But then she lowered the goblet, rested it on the table, and looked at me. Her expression shifted—less steel, more softness.
“You really want to know?” she asked, her voice quieter than usual.
I nodded. I’d always wondered. Her nightly glass of wine wasn’t just a habit—it was a fixture. A thread woven into every family memory. But last night, I needed to understand.
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