Your grandma keeps a secret
On guilt, nostalgia and rediscovery: watching loved ones age from a distance
Your grandma keeps a secret.
Actually, they are several.
One is about her first kiss.
That quiet evening when your grandfather kissed her. But that’s not the secret that still makes her cheeks flush, even sixty years later.
The real secret?
It’s about what happened after that kiss—how her perfectly applied lipstick smudged, how her carefully tailored dress became wrinkled, how the stars above Sofia’s city centre seemed to spin. The way his hands trembled. The way her world tilted.
Because I promise you—she remembers every racing heartbeat, every stolen touch, every whispered promise.
Ask her—she’ll tell you everything.
In a stable family dynamic, we view those who raised us as steadfast figures: our caregivers, protectors, and providers. They shaped our childhood—preparing our lunches, patching up scraped knees, tucking us into bed, or waiting outside the school gates. Over time, they become symbols of stability, woven into the fabric of our routines.
But what if we have unknowingly locked away their humanity behind the roles we have assigned to them?
Our grandparents are not just "Grandma" and "Grandpa", nor our parents simply "Mum" or "Dad." They are full, complex people who carry their own stories—novels, even.
Once they were nervous teenagers, reckless twenty-somethings, lovesick dreamers. They lived through heartbreak and triumph, wrestled with doubt on sleepless nights, and experienced moments when they felt most alive.
Perhaps you are like me—you have left your home country, or life keeps you so busy that visiting your grandparents once or twice a year is all you manage now.
You’ve told yourself that this place—her place—will never change. That the worn tablecloth will always sit just so. That the smell of her cooking will linger forever. That her laugh will carry the same rhythm, her voice the same warmth.
And in some ways, it does. Her flat still becomes my childhood sanctuary with every visit: the 7Days Strawberry Mini-Croissants she used to bring after school, the Biscuit Cake I can never resist. It feels as though preserving these small pieces of my childhood is her way of holding onto all our shared moments.
And then there are the quiet, folded papers of love, written in the universal language of care. Slipped into my palm or tucked into my bag when I’m not looking. “Just in case,” she whispers. “For the road.”
But the truth is, time doesn’t stop.
Her hands tremble now, ever so slightly. Her hair is more silver than I remember. Her stories sometimes repeat as a delicate threads she’s determined to weave back into memory. And in her eyes, unspoken words linger: I’m proud of you, but I miss you.
This Christmas, as we prepared the bread together, I began asking the questions.
Each memory poured out like a flood, held back for years. School years marked by low self-esteem while the pain still flickeres in her eyes. Nearly losing her life, thinking of all the words left unsaid, all the love yet to be shared. Finding her first true female friendship in her 40s, where laughter met tears. Learning to stand on her own in her 60s, finding peace in the quiet nights. Above all, she spoke of my grandfather’s love, the one that stayed with her since their first date.
Ten days. That’s all I get with her each year now.
In a quiet moment, she said something through tears that cracked my heart open: ‘I know I’m not alone, but sometimes, I feel lonely.’
These words echo in my mind.
We tell ourselves, “I will ask next time,” “I will call later,” “I will send that message this week.” But the truth is, next time isn’t certain. And even if it comes, the person you see or hear from will not be the same as they are today.
This isn’t just about grandparents. It’s about parents who keep their dreams tucked away. About siblings whose struggles you’ve overlooked. About friends who’ve stood by your side, but whose hearts you’ve never fully explored.
The time to ask is now. To bridge the spaces between hearts. To give the people you cherish the gift of being seen—truly seen.
So ask.
Ask about their first kiss—did their knees shake? Did they spend hours choosing the perfect shade of lipstick?
Ask if they danced in their room after the date, if they whispered the story to their best friend on the phone.
Ask about the dreams they buried—the vet career they never pursued.
Ask about the moment they chose love or the moment they walked away from it.
Ask about the days before you existed in their world when they were still writing their own story.
Because real love lives in the questions we dare to ask, and the silences we are brave enough to fill.
Happiest 79th Birthday, Grandma!
Love love love this! “Because real love lives in the questions we dare to ask, and the silences we are brave enough to fill.” 🩵