Every year, we throw the same birthday party for Grandma Rannie. Cake, flowers, her sparkly tiara, and those oversized number candles that make everyone laugh. It’s tradition. But this year—her 86th—felt different.
It wasn’t the decorations or the cake. It was her. She still looked just like she did when I was a child. Not just “good for her age,” but remarkably youthful. People always said she must have great genes. Some joked about skincare secrets or wondered if she’d had help. But Grandma Rannie always brushed it off with a chuckle and a wave of her hand.
That evening, as we sat around sharing stories from years past, she laughed like always—but something in her expression changed. In the middle of a story, she paused. Her smile faded, just for a second. The moment passed quickly, but I couldn’t shake the feeling that something was on her mind.
The next day, I stopped by her house alone. I found her sitting quietly at the kitchen table with a cup of tea in hand. She smiled when she saw me, but there was something thoughtful in her eyes.
“Are you okay, Grandma?” I asked gently.
She hesitated before setting down her cup. “I’ve been meaning to tell someone something,” she said. “It’s a story I’ve kept to myself for a very long time.”
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