It had been almost a year since Grandma passed.
Grandpa never talked much about it, but you could tell—
He still set out two coffee mugs in the morning.
Still muttered “Night, love” before bed.
Still kept her robe hanging by the door, like she’d be back any minute.
So one morning, I asked if he’d go out with me.
Just brunch. Just us. No reason.
He hesitated, then said,
“Sure… but only if we can get waffles. Your grandma would’ve liked that.”
He showed up in his tan church jacket, hair combed, shoes polished like it was Sunday.
Grandpa used to tell me stories of their life together—
How they met, their adventures, how Grandma made him laugh every single day.
“You know,” he said, stirring his coffee,
“Your grandma never liked it when I got the waffles. She always said I’d have a heart attack if I kept eating sugar.”
I chuckled.
That definitely sounded like her.
But Grandpa didn’t laugh.
“She wasn’t wrong,” he added softly, looking out the window.
“I miss her more than I ever thought I would. Sometimes I wake up and forget.
Forget she’s gone. Just for a moment.
Then it hits me all over again.”
He paused. Then said something that caught me off guard:
“I never thought I’d be doing this… dating again.”
I nearly dropped my fork.
“Wait… *dating*?”
He sipped his coffee, calm as ever.
“Mmm. Her name’s Laverne.”
I blinked.
“Laverne?”
“She plays the organ at my Tuesday grief support group.”
Of *all* the things I expected from this brunch, that was somewhere below, “I bought a motorcycle,” or “I’m joining a jazz band.”
“She’s not your grandma,” he said quickly.
“No one ever could be. But she… she’s kind. And she listens.
She lost her husband a few years ago too.
Sometimes, it’s just easier when someone understands the silence, you know?”
And weirdly… I did know.
He told me they’d started walking together after group.
Then coffee. Then she invited him to a seniors’ dance.
He hadn’t gone. She’d asked again. And again.
“I told her I needed time,” he said. “But now…
I think your grandma would want me to be okay.
Not alone forever.”
I just sat there, quietly stunned.
This man who taught me to ride a bike.
Who cried exactly once in my memory—at Grandma’s funeral.
Now here he was, trying to be brave enough to let the sun back in.
Then he looked at me, a little nervous.
“Would it be weird if I invited her to dinner? To meet you?”
I hesitated. Probably longer than I should have.
But then I smiled.
“Only if she doesn’t mind my awful cooking.”
He laughed.
And for the first time in almost a year, it was a real laugh.
**A week later, Laverne came over.**
She wore a lavender dress and brought homemade peach cobbler.
I expected awkward silence.
What I didn’t expect was to *genuinely like her*.
She was warm. Funny.
Told stories about her late husband, Wilder.
Had that same quiet sass Grandma used to have.
At one point, she and Grandpa had a playful debate about who made better biscuits—Grandma or her—and I swear, Grandpa actually *blushed*.
It was like watching spring return to a tree I thought had stopped blooming.
When she left, Grandpa lingered by the door.
“You really care about her, huh?” I asked.
He nodded. “But I still love your grandma. That’ll never change.”
I squeezed his hand.
“I know. And she’d be proud of you. For letting your heart keep beating.”
—
Here’s the thing no one tells you about grief:
It’s not about moving *on*.
It’s about moving *forward*.
It’s okay to carry the love you lost…
*While making room for the love that’s still out there.*
Not better. Not worse.
Just… different.
Grandpa taught me that.
He’s not replacing Grandma. He never could.
But he’s choosing joy. Companionship. *Life*.
And honestly? That’s one of the bravest things I’ve ever seen.
If you’ve been holding back from healing because it feels like betrayal…
Maybe this is your sign.
Love again. Laugh again. Live again.
The people we’ve lost wouldn’t want us stuck in the dark—
They’d want us to find our way back to the light.
**If this touched your heart, share it with someone who needs a gentle reminder—**
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