I grew up more in Grandma Jen’s cozy cottage than in my own house, where my parents were always busy chasing success. Her home felt safe — she braided my hair, read funny stories to me, and cooked simple but comforting meals. Every night she gave me walnuts, telling me they’d make my heart stronger, even though I was born with a heart defect.
As I got older and my life filled with luxury — designer clothes, trips, and status — I drifted away from her, forgetting the smell of lavender and her gentle care. I answered her calls distractedly and stopped visiting, embarrassed by her old-fashioned ways.
At my lavish wedding, she came with a worn cloth bag of walnuts as a gift. I rudely rejected her. She left without protest, and I felt nothing. She called afterward, but I ignored her. Months later, she died of a broken heart. I was consumed with guilt and rushed home but crashed and was hospitalized.
When I recovered, I opened her walnuts: each contained a loving note and small savings she’d prepared for my future, reminding me of her constant kindness and urging me to choose love and kindness too. My grief changed me, and I finally honored her memory by making simple, heartfelt meals and letting love back into my life.
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