But the sparkle had returned to her eyes.
She wore a pale blue dress and her favorite silver locket.
“Emma, sweetheart, can we sit for a moment?”
“Of course, Grandma.”
She stopped walking.
Then looked at me.
“What did you call me?”
I smiled.
“Grandma.”
Her lips trembled.
“Say it again.”
I laughed through my tears.
“Grandma Margaret.”
She covered her mouth.
For a moment, she couldn't speak.
Then she pulled me into her arms.
“Oh, Emma.”
I held her tightly.
For thirty years, I'd called her Mrs. Wilson.
Even when I was little.
Even when she baked cookies for me.
Even when she sat beside my bed after I broke my arm falling out of a tree.
Even when she helped Mom comfort me after Dad died.
And now one small word had changed the way those memories felt.
Not because the love was suddenly different.
But because we finally understood where some of it had begun.
