That Wednesday was meant to mark my grandparents’ 50th wedding anniversary. But my grandfather, Torin, had passed away two years earlier—suddenly and without warning. One moment, he was humming a Patsy Cline tune while pruning the backyard roses, and the next, he was gone. A stroke took him in an instant, before anyone could say goodbye.
His passing left my grandmother, Mira, deeply heartbroken. They had been inseparable since she was seventeen—two souls who had built a lifetime of rituals and love. They shared desserts, slow-danced in the kitchen, and held hands like they were still teenagers. Grandpa always treated her with tenderness and care.
Since losing him, Grandma kept his memory close. Last year, on what would have been their 49th anniversary, she lit a candle beside his photo and sat in quiet remembrance. But this year, she told me she wanted something different—she wanted to return to the restaurant where they’d had their first date and celebrated every anniversary after.
She dressed with care, pinning the pearl brooch Torin had given her on their 25th anniversary just over her heart. She took the bus downtown, sat at their favorite table, and ordered the same meal they always shared: ribs with mashed potatoes, a small lasagna, and a slice of pecan pie “for Torin.” She laughed softly at the memories, shed a few tears, and left a 20% tip—everything she could afford.
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