he chose, the flowers always ended up in a vase on the kitchen table, waiting for Grandma when she woke up.
When I was little, I once asked him, “Grandpa, why do you bring Grandma flowers every single week?”
He smiled, the corners of his eyes crinkling.
“Because love isn’t just something you feel, Grace. It’s something you do. Every single day.”
“But they’re just flowers,” I protested.
He chuckled softly. “It’s never just flowers, sweetheart. They’re a reminder that she’s loved. That she matters. And that, after all these years, I’d still choose her.”
That was how their love worked. No grand declarations or extravagant gestures. Just flowers, small acts of kindness, and a lifetime of choosing each other.
Even when Grandpa wasn’t feeling well, he rarely missed his Saturday ritual. Sometimes, I’d drive him to the market, where he could spend twenty minutes examining bouquets before settling on
