I spent most of my childhood in my grandmother’s house — a small, creaky cottage at the edge of town, smelling of lavender and warm bread. My parents, Miranda and John, were always busy chasing promotions, cars, and the kind of success you can frame on a wall. But Grandma Jen? She gave me something they couldn’t: time, warmth, and the kind of love that didn’t need words.
She used to braid my hair every morning, humming some tune from before I was born. Her braids were never perfect — always a little loose — but when she tied the ends, she’d smile like she’d made me a crown.
We’d sit by the window in the evenings, her with her crossword, me with my coloring books. Every night, she’d bring out a small bowl of walnuts. Already shelled, already perfect halves.
“Eat these, sweetheart,” she’d say. “They’ll make your heart stronger.”
I didn’t understand what she meant then. I just knew that her hands — the same ones that shelled every walnut — were always warm and steady.
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