When I was little, I once asked him why he did it every single week.
He smiled—the soft smile that creased the corners of his eyes—and said, “Love isn’t just a feeling, Grace. It’s an action. Something you choose to do, over and over.”
I shrugged. “But they’re just flowers.”
He shook his head. “They’re never just flowers. They’re proof she’s loved. Proof she matters. Proof I’d choose her again, every time.”
That was how they loved—quietly, faithfully.
Even when Grandpa wasn’t feeling well, the flowers still came. Some Saturdays, I drove him myself. He’d stand there forever, carefully choosing the right bouquet, as if the decision mattered more than anything else.
Grandma always acted surprised, though she knew the routine by heart. She’d inhale their scent, arrange them just right, then kiss his cheek.
“You spoil me,” she’d say.
He’d grin. “Impossible.”
A week ago, Grandpa Thomas died.
He had been sick for a long time, though he never complained. Cancer, the doctors said—silent and spreading. Grandma held his hand until the end. I sat beside them, watching the man who taught me what love looks like slip away.
When he was gone, the quiet in that room felt unbearable.
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