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She was acknowledging that I had my own tastes, my own life, my own needs she couldn’t predict. Instead of choosing something safe or practical, she gave me freedom. And in her language, that was love.
Love That Doesn’t Announce Itself
After she passed away, the memories rearranged themselves. I remembered how she always insisted on paying when we went out. How she saved scraps of wrapping paper. How she reused envelopes until the edges frayed.
I realized she had been loving me the only way she knew how—by making sure I was okay, even when she wasn’t around to see it.
That $50 gift card wasn’t a placeholder. It was a quiet acknowledgment that I was growing, changing, becoming someone she trusted to choose for myself.
The Things We Misread
We often expect love to look a certain way—emotional speeches, perfect gifts, dramatic gestures. When it doesn’t match that picture, we assume it’s lacking. But love is shaped by experience. By history. By what people had to do to survive.
My grandma didn’t have the luxury of softness when she was young. So she learned to express care through provision. Through preparation. Through giving what she could without asking for praise.
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