I grew up more in Grandma Jen’s house than I did in my own. My parents, Miranda and John, were always working, trading time for money, and money for status. Meanwhile, Grandma’s old cottage sat at the edge of town, with its creaky porch, lavender-scented doilies, and floorboards that groaned under every step.

To me, it felt like safety.

Grandma Jen used to braid my hair before school, humming softly as her fingers worked through the tangles. The braids were always a little loose, never perfect, but somehow they felt like a crown when she was done.

I’d sit on the floor by her rocking chair while she sipped her tea and read the paper aloud to me. She’d never read the tragic or danger-filled stories, only the funny ones. Her laughter always came before the punchline, a bubbling sound that made me laugh too, even if I didn’t understand the joke.

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Every evening, she’d cook the same dinners. Nothing fancy, but always nourishing and comforting, like soft potatoes with black pepper, crisp green beans with butter, and scrambled eggs and sausages that tasted better than anything from a restaurant. She didn’t follow any recipes; she just knew what felt right.

“These are the meals that stick to your bones, my Rachel,” she’d say, setting down the plates.

And every night, just before bedtime, she’d sit beside me on the couch with a tiny bowl of walnuts. They were already cracked and cleaned, and placed in little halves. She always made sure I didn’t have to do the work.

“Eat these, sweetheart,” she’d say, placing them gently in my hands. “They’ll make your heart stronger.”

One night, I remember looking at her with my head tilted, trying to make sense of her words.

“Stronger how, Gran?” I asked.

“In all the ways that matter, sweet girl,” she said, touching her chest over her heart. “In the ways that they can’t see on a scan.”

I had been born with a congenital heart defect. By the time I turned seven, I’d had multiple surgeries. There were years where hospital rooms were more familiar than my own pink and white bedroom. My chest held a thick, pale scar that made me tug my shirts higher than the other girls did.

But Grandma Jen never looked at me like I was breakable. She made me feel whole.

Back then, she was everything to me, my safety net, and my warmth. Grandma Jen was the only constant in my life.

As I got older, life started to move faster, or maybe I just stopped noticing the slower moments. My parents, always chasing more, started pouring wealth onto me like it was a reward. Suddenly, my life was all about designer dresses, ski trips, private school tuition, and summers in Italy.

And just like that, I stopped craving the simple meals and quiet nights. I started forgetting the scent of lavender and the sound of Grandma Jen humming.

And somehow, I convinced myself that all I was doing was growing up.

And slowly, Grandma’s house started to feel old to me. It was as if the colors had dulled, though I knew deep down it was me who had changed, not the house.

Whenever I thought of it, I’d think of it as being stale and dusty. The charm I used to adore became something I rolled my eyes at. I stopped visiting as often, and when I did, I’d sit with one foot half out the door, scrolling my phone and checking the time.

Once, I walked in and wrinkled my nose before I even said hello. I wasn’t proud of myself, but somehow, that’s how I’d turned out.

“It smells like old people in here,” I muttered, tossing my coat over the back of her chair.

Grandma Jen looked up from her crossword puzzle and smiled softly.

“That’s the smell of lavender and rosemary, honey,” she said. “You used to love it, Rachel.”

I wince thinking about that now. But I didn’t answer her. I just opened a window.

Still, she called every week without fail. Sometimes I answered half-heartedly, earbuds still in, scrolling while she spoke, but she never seemed to mind my distracted replies.

She always had the same warm tone, always asking if I was eating well, sleeping enough, and remembering to take my heart medication.

And every call ended with the same gentle phrase.

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“Be kind, sweetheart,” she’d say. “The world’s already too cruel.”

I never said it back. I didn’t even tell her that I loved her or missed her. I just told her I was busy.

When I was 22, I got engaged to Grant. He came from old money and dressed like it. His parents owned a string of restaurants and a vineyard in Napa. He drove a silver Audi, wore cufflinks at breakfast, and had a watch that probably cost more than Grandma Jen’s entire house.

The wedding became a huge event, of course. We invited 500 guests to a waterfront venue. I had three gorgeous gowns, a celebrity chef menu, and a custom floral arch taller than the bridal party.

Everyone there had a title, a brand, or a business card that screamed wealth. Grandma Jen wasn’t on the list.

“She raised you,” my mother said, her eyes full of tears. “Please, Rachel. Just invite her. For me, darling.”

“She doesn’t know anyone, Mom. Other than you, Dad, and the few family members who made the cut, Gran won’t know anyone. She’ll feel out of place,” I said, sighing deeply.

“She’ll come for you, Rachel,” my mother said firmly. “She’ll see you looking radiant and happy, and that’s all she’s ever wanted for you.”

So I added my grandmother’s name to the list, reluctantly.