It had been almost a year. He never said much about it, but I could tell—he still set out two coffee mugs in the morning. Still muttered “night, love” before bed. Still kept her robe hanging by the door like she’d be back any minute.

So I asked him if he’d go out with me. Just brunch. Just us. No reason. He hesitated, then said, “Sure… but only if we can get waffles. Your grandma would’ve liked that.”

He came out in his tan jacket, the one he always wore to church. Hair combed, shoes shined.

Grandpa always used to tell me stories of their younger years—how they met, the adventures they had, how Grandma made him laugh every day.

“You know, your grandma never liked it when I got the waffles,” he said, stirring his coffee absentmindedly. “She always said I’d have a heart attack if I kept eating so much sugar.”

I chuckled softly. That sounded like something Grandma would say. But Grandpa wasn’t laughing.

“She wasn’t wrong, though,” he continued, looking out the window as if the memories were suddenly too heavy to hold. “I miss her more than I ever thought I would. Sometimes I wake up, and I forget. I forget she’s gone for a split second, and then the reality hits, and it’s like a wave all over again. I never thought I’d be doing this… dating again.”

I almost choked on my drink. “Wait, dating?”

He sipped his coffee, real calm, like he’d just told me we were out of milk. “Mmm. Her name’s Laverne.”

I blinked. “Laverne?”

“She plays the organ at my Tuesday grief support group.”

Of all the things I expected from that brunch, Grandpa telling me he was seeing someone ranked somewhere below “I won the lottery” and “I’m running away to join the circus.”

“She’s not your grandma,” he said quickly. “No one ever could be. But she… she’s kind. And she listens. We mostly just talk. She lost her husband a few years ago too. Sometimes, it’s easier when someone gets the silence, you know?”

And weirdly… I did know.

He told me they’d met a few months ago, started walking together after group meetings. Then coffee. Then she invited him to a seniors’ dance. He hadn’t gone. But she’d asked again. And again.

“I told her I needed time,” he said. “But now… I don’t know. I think your grandma would want me to be okay. Not alone forever.”

I didn’t say anything for a minute. I just stared at him. This man who taught me how to ride a bike, who built Grandma a porch swing from scratch, who cried exactly once in my life—at her funeral. And here he was, brave enough to open his heart again.

Then he looked straight at me and said, “Would it be weird if I invited her to dinner? To meet you?”

I hesitated, probably longer than I should have. But then I smiled. “Only if she doesn’t mind my awful cooking.”

We laughed, and it was the first time I’d heard him really laugh in almost a year.

A week later, Laverne came over. She wore a lavender dress and brought homemade peach cobbler.

I expected awkward. I expected forced smiles and weird silences. What I didn’t expect was to genuinely like her.

She was sharp. Told stories about her late husband, Wilder, and had that same soft sass Grandma used to have. At one point, she and Grandpa got into a lighthearted debate about who made better biscuits—Grandma or her—and I swear, I thought I saw Grandpa blush.

It was like watching spring come back to a tree I thought was done blooming.

After she left, Grandpa lingered by the door. I walked up beside him and said, “You really care about her, huh?”

He nodded. “But I still love your grandma. That’ll never change.”

I squeezed his hand. “I know. And she’d be proud of you. For letting your heart keep beating.”

Here’s the thing no one tells you about grief—it’s not about moving on. It’s about moving forward.

It’s okay to carry the love you lost while making room for the love still out there. Different love. Not better. Not worse. Just… different.

Grandpa taught me that.

He’s not replacing Grandma. He never could. But he’s choosing life. Joy. Companionship.

And honestly? That’s one of the bravest things I’ve ever seen.

So if you’re holding back from healing because you think it’s dishonoring someone you lost… maybe this is your sign.

Love again. Laugh again. Live again.

Because the people we love wouldn’t want us stuck in the dark—they’d want us to find our way back to the light.

If this touched your heart, share it with someone who needs the reminder—and don’t forget to like ❤️