I spent my childhood in my grandmother’s small, creaky cottage at the edge of town — the air smelling of lavender and warm bread. My parents were always chasing promotions, luxury cars, and achievements that could be framed on a wall. Grandma Jen? She gave me something no money could buy: time, patience, and a love that never needed words.
Every morning, she braided my hair, humming songs from before I was born. The braids were never perfect, always a little loose, but when she tied the ends, she’d smile like she’d crowned me queen of the world. In the evenings, we’d sit by the window — her with her crossword, me with coloring books — and she’d bring me a small bowl of walnuts. “Eat these, sweetheart,” she said. “They’ll make your heart stronger.” I didn’t understand what she meant then, but I trusted her hands — warm, steady, and full of care.
I was born with a congenital heart defect. Surgeries, monitors, hospital visits — that was my childhood. But Grandma never treated me like I was fragile. “You’re my strong girl,” she’d whisper whenever I woke scared, and somehow, I believed her.
As I grew older, I drifted toward wealth and appearances. Designer clothes, exotic vacations, luxury dinners — all bought my attention. Grandma’s house, once my sanctuary, felt “old” and “small.” I ignored her calls, scrolled through my phone while she spoke, and once even said, “It smells like old people in here.” She only smiled, softly replying, “That’s lavender and rosemary, honey. You used to love it.”
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