We always thought it was just her thing.

Every night at exactly 7:00, Grandma Ina pours herself one glass of wine—same green goblet, same old chair, no matter where she is. Doesn’t matter if there’s a birthday party happening, or a tornado watch, or if she’s sick in bed. That wine gets poured.

She’s 105 now. Still sharp, still stubborn, still judging every decision I make with one raised eyebrow and a sip.

Last night, it was just the two of us in the living room. Quiet. The kind of quiet that makes you say things you wouldn’t normally say.

So I asked her. “Why do you do it? The wine. What’s it really about?”

That’s when she paused, the glass held halfway to her lips. For a moment, I thought she hadn’t heard me. But then she lowered the goblet and set it gently on the table, looking at me as though she were weighing the decision to share something that had been hidden for a long time.

“You really want to know?” she asked, her voice softer than usual, more vulnerable.

I nodded. I had always wondered. My whole life, it had been a constant. There was a comfort in the routine of it—the ritual of watching her sip her wine, always at 7 p.m., always in the same chair, always with a slight, almost imperceptible sigh of relief. It was part of her, part of the fabric of our family. But last night, for some reason, the question seemed to demand an answer.

Grandma Ina leaned back in her chair, looking up at the ceiling as though the memories she was about to share were up there somewhere, waiting to be plucked out of the air.

“You’re not going to like this,” she said, her voice cracking with the weight of years.

“I’m listening,” I said, unsure of what she meant but feeling an uneasy curiosity bubble up.

She took a long, slow breath, her fingers curling around the stem of her goblet. “It started when I was about your age—young, full of hope. I had a life ahead of me, just like you. I had dreams, ambitions, and a man I loved. His name was Henry.”

I hadn’t heard her talk about Henry before. She’d never really mentioned much about the past, other than the usual stories about family gatherings, holidays, or the funny little mishaps that seemed to mark her younger years. But this was different. This was something new.

She sighed again, her eyes distant. “Henry and I were supposed to be happy, you know? We were supposed to have everything—good jobs, a house, kids. But life doesn’t always go the way you want it to. Henry wasn’t as strong as I thought he was. He had a temper. And that temper… it led to things I’ll never forget.”

I felt my stomach tighten. I’d always known Grandma Ina had lived through hard times, but I hadn’t expected this.

She took another breath, as if gathering the strength to continue. “He started drinking. At first, it was just a glass of whiskey now and then, but soon it was every day. Then it became more than that. It was the alcohol. And it was the anger. It was a mess, and I didn’t know how to fix it. I didn’t know how to make him stop or how to stop myself from being sucked into it.”

I stayed quiet, not wanting to interrupt. She was letting me in on something so deeply personal. This was a side of her I hadn’t seen before, a side I never thought I would.

“One day, he came home late—drunk, of course. He was angry about something trivial, I don’t even remember what. But I remember the look in his eyes. The way he slammed the door and shouted at me. That night, I found myself in a situation I never thought I would be in. He hit me, for the first time. And it wasn’t just a slap. It was a punch.”

I gasped, my heart aching for her. Grandma Ina, the woman who had always seemed indestructible, the one who made me believe everything would always be okay, had endured this?

She smiled weakly, her eyes glassy with a faraway sadness. “I didn’t know what to do. I didn’t know how to leave him. But I knew I couldn’t stay in that environment. So, I did what any desperate woman would do. I stayed quiet. I pretended like everything was normal. But every night, I poured myself a glass of wine. Not because I enjoyed it, but because it helped me numb the pain. It helped me forget, even for just a little while.”

I could hardly breathe, the weight of her words pressing down on me. She had been holding onto this for so many years. And here I was, sitting beside her, listening to a part of her past that was so painful, so raw.

“But that wasn’t the worst part,” she continued, the words coming more quickly now, as if the dam had broken and there was no stopping the flow. “The worst part was what happened after I started drinking. I didn’t leave. I couldn’t. I told myself it was for the sake of the family, for the sake of our son, Sam. But the truth was, I was too afraid to face life without him, even though I knew he was no good for me.”

My heart broke for her, for the strength it must have taken to endure that life. I thought about the life she’d built afterward—her stoic demeanor, her unshakable sense of independence—and realized it had all been forged from years of quiet pain.

“It wasn’t until much later, after we separated, that I realized what had happened. The wine wasn’t just a crutch; it had become a part of me. I’d used it to survive, to get through the darkest days. But what I didn’t see was that I had become dependent on it, just like Henry had become dependent on his alcohol. I wasn’t any better.”

Grandma Ina paused, her eyes full of regret. “I didn’t know how to stop. I didn’t know how to let go of that thing that had kept me going for so many years. It became a ritual—a comfort. And that’s why I’ve had my glass of wine every night since. Not because I need it now, but because it reminds me of who I was then. It reminds me of my strength. Every sip, every night, I remind myself that I survived. I made it through the worst of it.”

I didn’t know what to say. My grandmother had spent 80 years clinging to something that had been a symbol of survival, a symbol of strength. And I understood, finally, why the wine was so important to her. It wasn’t just about the ritual; it was about reclaiming control in a world that had so often taken it from her.

“But Grandma,” I whispered, “you don’t need that anymore. You’ve made it through. You’re strong enough now, without it.”

She smiled at me, a genuine, soft smile, the kind that only someone who has lived through hardship can give. “I know, dear. But sometimes, we hold onto things because they remind us of who we were. And sometimes, we hold onto them because they’re all we have left. Even if we don’t need them anymore, we don’t always know how to let go.”

I nodded, understanding more than I ever thought possible. Life isn’t always what it seems. We don’t always see the hidden struggles others are carrying, the quiet battles they fight every day. And sometimes, the things that seem the most ordinary—the small rituals—are the things that carry the heaviest weight.

Grandma Ina and I sat there for a while, the evening sinking into a peaceful silence. For the first time, I felt like I truly understood her. The woman who had always been the rock of our family, the one we all leaned on, had her own hidden scars. But through it all, she had learned to survive—and to live.

Before I left for bed, she looked at me with a twinkle in her eye. “You’re right, dear. I don’t need the wine anymore. But it’s been part of me for so long. Maybe one day, I’ll let it go. But for now, it stays. It’s part of my story. And we all need our stories.”

As I left her room, I realized how important it is to honor our past, no matter how difficult it may be. Sometimes, the things we carry with us are not just about survival—they’re about remembering who we’ve been, so we can appreciate how far we’ve come.

So, if you’re holding onto something from your past, something that’s been with you for a long time, know that it’s okay. You don’t have to let go of it all at once. But remember, you have the strength to move forward, even if it takes time.

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