My grandmother and I were very close. As a child, she read me fairy tales and walked me to school. As I got older, she treated me like a friend. When I introduced her to my fiancé, she invited him over for a talk, and they spoke for an hour. He never shared what they discussed, saying he’d promised her. I think she was making sure he’d be a good husband to me, as she was always fiercely protective of me.
Before she passed away, my grandmother called me to her when we were alone. She whispered a request — to clean the photo on her headstone exactly one year after she was gone. I told her, “Grandma, don’t talk like that; you’ll be around longer.” But she insisted, and so I promised her. That very night, she passed away.
A year after her funeral, I went to her grave to fulfill my promise. Armed with a screwdriver, I easily unscrewed the old photo. When I removed it, I was shaken. “This can’t be!” I screamed.
“Promise me, sweet pea—one year after I’m gone, clean my photo on my headstone. Just you,” Grandma Patty whispered. A year later, I kept my promise, bringing cleaning tools to her grave. Behind the photo frame, I found a hidden note that changed everything.
The note led me to the woods, where we’d once left “fairy mail.” There, I unearthed a copper box with her sapphire ring and a letter. Grandma revealed a secret: my mother had been adopted. “Love isn’t about blood; it’s about choice,” she wrote, assuring me that every moment we’d shared was real.
Through tears, I realized her love transcended biology. Grandma’s legacy lives on—a reminder that family is something we choose, every day.
