The cottage at the end of that drive held every fear my grandma couldn’t say out loud. Another woman. Another life. A crack in the story she’d built her whole heart around. But when Ruby opened the door and led us through the house, what waited in the backyard wasn’t proof of betrayal—it was proof of devotion. An entire garden, planned in secret, bloomed like a confession. Every path, every color, every carefully chosen flower was a sentence in the love letter he never stopped writing.

Standing among the roses and wildflowers, my grandma finally understood where he’d been disappearing to, and why. The doubt that had clawed at her on the drive over dissolved into grief and gratitude, tangled together. Now, each Saturday, we go back. We sit in his garden, water his promises, and let love keep speaking in petals where words can’t reach.