Several months passed after our wedding.
Daniel and I had settled into our new routine.
We had our favorite grocery store, our usual Saturday breakfast, and a small collection of wedding photographs displayed in the living room.
The photograph of Lucas in his crimson dress had become one of my favorites.
Whenever someone asked about it, I told them the story.
Some people smiled.
Others became emotional.
But everyone understood why he had worn it.
One afternoon, Grandma called me.
Her voice sounded normal, but she asked whether Daniel and I could visit that weekend.
I asked if everything was okay.
She laughed softly.
"Nothing is wrong, sweetheart. I just miss having everyone around the table."
I promised we would come.
That Saturday, Daniel and I drove to her house.
The moment we entered, I smelled coffee.
There were two cups on the kitchen table and a plate of biscuits beside them.
Grandma was sitting in her usual chair.
Lucas was already there.
He had brought groceries and was helping her put things away.
I smiled.
"You're becoming part of the furniture."
He laughed.
"Somebody has to make sure this house stays standing."
We sat together.
Grandma asked about our marriage.
Daniel told her about work.
Lucas complained about the weather.
For a while, it was an ordinary afternoon.
Then Grandma looked at me.
"Did you bring your mother's letter?"
I glanced at Daniel.
"Yes. It's safely at home."
She nodded.
"I would like to read it again sometime."
I understood.
She had heard some of its contents, but she had never held the original.
I promised to bring it during our next visit.
Lucas looked down at his coffee.
I noticed the movement, but I didn't think much of it.
After lunch, Grandma and I sat together in the living room.
She looked at the wedding photograph on the shelf.
"Your mother would have been proud of that day."
I smiled.
"I think so, too."
She touched the frame.
"Lucas did something very kind."
"He did."
Grandma was quiet for a moment.
Then she said something that stayed with me.
"Your mother chose the right person to trust."
I looked at her.
"She really did."
That evening, Daniel and I drove home.
I kept thinking about the letter.
I wondered how many times Grandma had imagined what my mother might have written.
I knew she missed her daughter just as much as I did.
Perhaps differently.
But just as deeply.
The following weekend, I brought the wooden box.
Grandma opened it carefully.
She looked at the photograph of Rachel first.
Then she picked up the letter.
Her fingers moved gently across the paper.
She recognized the handwriting immediately.
"Oh, Rachel."
Her voice broke.
She read slowly.
Sometimes she smiled.
Sometimes she stopped.
When she reached the paragraph thanking Lucas, she looked toward him.
He was sitting quietly near the window.
Grandma returned to the letter.
After finishing, she folded it carefully.
"She always worried about you."
I nodded.
"She mentioned that."
Grandma looked at me.
"She worried about leaving you behind. But she trusted that you would be loved."
I felt tears gathering.
"She was right."
Grandma reached for my hand.
Then she placed the letter back inside the folder.
We spent the rest of the afternoon talking about Mom.
Not only about her death.
We talked about her life.
Her terrible singing.
Her habit of buying too many groceries.
The way she laughed whenever she was genuinely surprised.
For once, our conversation wasn't centered entirely on what we had lost.
It was about who she had been.
And that felt important.
Click here to continue reading: PART 10: When I Asked Lucas About His Life Before My Mother, I Discovered How Much Their Friendship Had Meant to Both of Them
My Mother Made One Promise Before Leaving for Iraq, and I Held on to It Long After She Was Gone
Part 9 of 20
