At first, I thought she was just being diligent about school—early study sessions, extra-credit work, maybe even a secret morning workout. I was proud of her discipline. She always left the house before I even had my coffee.
But a few days ago, I got a call from the school.
They were concerned because Emily hadn’t attended first period in over two months.
I was confused. She left for school like clockwork.
Every morning. Rain or shine.
I asked her about it, and she shrugged it off—said it was a mix-up, and that she’d sort it out.
But the next morning… I followed her.
She didn’t go to school.
She walked straight to the nursing home five blocks away.
When I got there and peeked through the window, I saw her sitting beside an old woman in a wheelchair—feeding her oatmeal and brushing her hair.
That woman was my mother. Emily’s grandmother.
The same woman I hadn’t spoken to in over ten years after a falling-out that left us both heartbroken.
Emily never told me they’d found each other.
She never told me she forgave what I couldn’t.
She just showed up.
Every morning. Quietly. Lovingly.
I’ve never been more heartbroken…
Or more proud.
