I stayed with Grandma, helping her sort through Grandpa’s belongings: his books, his clothes, and the reading glasses he always left on his nightstand.
Everything felt wrong without him. The house seemed too quiet, and even the smallest routines reminded us of the enormous space he had left behind.
Then Saturday morning arrived.
For the first time in 57 years, there were no flowers.
Grandma sat at the kitchen table, staring at the empty vase. I made her a cup of tea, but she barely touched it. Her eyes remained fixed on the vase, as though she were waiting for something that would never come.
“It’s strange,” she whispered. “How much you can miss something so small.”
I reached across the table and squeezed her hand.
“He loved you so much, Grandma.”
“I know, dear.” Her voice trembled. “I just wish I could tell him one more time that I
