We sat for a long time after the nurse brought in tea. The room was warm and quiet, filled with that faint lavender scent that always seemed to stay in Grandma's room. The curtains were half open, letting in soft sunlight that made everything look golden and calm. Grandma's hands trembled slightly as she lifted her cup, but her eyes were still sharp, still watching me the way they always had. Those eyes could see through me, even when I tried to hide behind a smile.
"You're quiet today," she said softly, setting her cup down. Her voice was gentle, but there was a firmness in it that made me look up. "Your mind is wandering again."
I smiled faintly and looked down at the tea. "You make it sound like I'm still a little girl daydreaming in class."
She chuckled, a low sound that came with a tiny cough. "You'll always be that little girl to me. The one who used to fall asleep on the library floor with a book over her face. I used to tiptoe in, take the book off your chest, and you'd mumble something about dragons or stars."
That made me laugh quietly. "You still remember that?"
"I remember everything," she said with a small smile. "Especially the things that made me proud."
For a few moments, neither of us spoke. I watched the steam rise from my cup, swirling and disappearing like small ghosts. Then I noticed her face. The smile had faded. Her eyes were far away now, staring at something I couldn't see. There was a silence that felt heavy, like the air itself was waiting for her to speak. Then she sighed, long and deep, the kind of sigh that carries years of stories no one else has heard.
"You know," she began slowly, "when your stepfather stopped sending money, I thought it was just his temper talking. He always had that streak of cruelty in him, even as a child."
My heart squeezed. "He did?"
She nodded. "Oh yes. He had his father's temper. It showed in little ways at first. The way he'd break things when he didn't get what he wanted. The way he'd glare at people who tried to correct him. I tried to teach him better, but he had already learned too much from watching his father."
I lowered my gaze. The guilt I always felt whenever his name came up started to rise again. "He cut you off because of me," I whispered.
Grandma nodded slowly. "Yes, he did. He did it to punish you and to punish me for choosing you. He wanted to remind me that love has a cost."
I looked down at my lap, my fingers twisting together. "I'm so sorry, Grandma. You shouldn't have had to go through all that because of me."
"Don't you dare apologize," she said, her voice suddenly strong. She reached across the small table and took my hand. Her palm was warm and a little rough, the way it had always been. "You saved me from a lonely old age, Rosie. You gave me something worth fighting for again."
Her words caught me off guard. My throat tightened, and I blinked hard, trying not to cry. "But you had to start cleaning again," I said in a shaky voice. "After everything you'd already endured, you still had to do that."
She gave a small, wry smile, her eyes soft but steady. "Yes, I did. The irony of life, isn't it? After all those years of raising that boy, my own son, I had to go back to scrubbing floors for strangers. I thought those days were behind me. But sometimes life circles back, whether we're ready or not."
She looked out the window, as if she could see those years again. "I raised him on nothing but faith and hand-me-down hope. His father was a brute, Rosie. He drank himself into rage most nights. I used to hide behind the door, holding that boy in my arms, praying he wouldn't wake up from the shouting. I thought I was saving him. I thought if I held him tight enough, if I loved him enough, he'd grow up different."
Her voice broke a little, and I could see her jaw tremble as she spoke. "But I was wrong. He grew into his father instead."
I felt something break inside me. My chest ached. I had never heard her talk about it like this before so open, so raw. She had always been strong, the kind of woman who carried her pain quietly. Hearing her now made me realize just how much she had suffered long before I ever came into her life.
"When I stood up for you," she continued, "that was the final straw. He said I had chosen a stranger over my own blood. Said I was dead to him. He stopped everything the allowance, the help, even the visits. I had to go back to scrubbing floors, Rosie. Old bones and all."
Her lips trembled, but she lifted her chin. "But I didn't mind. You were safe. That was all that mattered. I would have mopped a thousand floors if it meant you had peace."
Tears filled my eyes until everything blurred. I reached out and took her hand again, squeezing it tightly. "You've always been more of a mother to me than anyone ever was."
She smiled softly, tears shining in her eyes too. "And you've been more of a daughter to me than he ever was a son."
The room went quiet again. The silence between us was heavy, but it wasn't empty. It was full of everything we couldn't put into words pain, love, loss, and the strange kind of peace that comes after years of surviving together.
After a long while, she spoke again. "You know what's funny, Rosie? Your stepfather always worshiped money. He thought it made him powerful. He got that from his father too. Both of them believed that whoever had money had control over everyone else. But look where that thinking got them bitter men who could never love without wanting to own the person they loved."
She looked at me then, her gaze sharp again, cutting through the fog of memory. "Don't let money turn love into a weapon, Rosie. Promise me that."
I nodded slowly. "I promise."
"You have what they never did," she said softly. "A heart that still feels."
I smiled faintly. "Sometimes it hurts too much to feel."
She squeezed my fingers gently. "That's how you know you're still human."
For a while, we just sat there like that, two women bound not by blood, but by something even stronger by love that had survived cruelty, by the quiet understanding that comes from years of shared pain.
The sunlight outside was fading into a warm gold. It poured through the curtains, falling across Grandma's face, making her look like she was wrapped in light. She looked tired but peaceful, as if letting those memories out had lightened something heavy inside her.
I moved closer and rested my head gently on her shoulder, the way I used to when I was younger when the world had felt too cruel and her small house had been the only place I felt safe.
She didn't move for a while. Then her arm came around me, slow and trembling but sure. I could hear her heartbeat, steady and calm.
"Thank you," I whispered.
She turned her head slightly. "For what, my dear?"
"For choosing me."
Her voice shook just a little when she answered. "Always, Rosie. I'd choose you a thousand times."
Her words stayed with me, filling the quiet room like a soft song. I closed my eyes, breathing in the lavender scent, the warmth, the love that had carried me through so much.