All that makes it seem possible is the man holding me together whom I’ve fallen head over heels for. Yet it no longer scares me, because being apart only showed me how unbearable life is away from him. “I can’t take it anymore, either, but I don’t want to have to spend our limited spare time driving back and forth to Miami.”
Confusion creases his forehead, so I switch to nodding and nodding, a bobblehead struggling to find her words
Slow it down.
“What I’m trying to say is that I love you, too. That I belong here.” I sweep to generally encompass the people in the room. “With all of you.”
I clear my throat, gathering the attention of everyone as I raise my voice over the din and beeping monitors. “Today Jan called and asked me if I’d be interested in managing the entire community so she can officially retire. And I said yes.”
There’s a roar of celebration that summons a nurse, who catches us all red-handed and insists the majority of us return to the waiting room until she’s administered meds.
But Grandma Helen lifts her arm, catching my attention.
“N-need M-Mia…stay. Need her…help…resolving…” It’s hard to see her struggle, helplessness flooding every nook and cranny, but I’ll do anything she asks, surely she knows that. She exhales, exhausted, and in that unguarded moment of weakness and pain, I see that we won’t have a month or even a week. “Call yerr mom. For me. Need you…help fix. N-no-regrets.”
Epilogue
Six months later…
I do a happy jig on my way out of the office, after giving a tour in the golf cart I’d inherited, decorative paper flowers, flamingo keychain, and all.
I meant to do a few more things before leaving for the day, and Past Mia would’ve kept her ass glued to the chair, no exceptions. But this gal? She’s finally learned the ways of the chill and today calls for a celebration.
I did it again! I’m amazing!
As of 4:37 this afternoon, Lakeview Retirement Village just hit the industry sweet spot at a whopping 96 percent.
It’d been impossible not to think about Grandma Helen as I drove the familiar path from the office to the ranch home with the Spanish-tile roof she and Wanda used to share.
That house is where nine grannies and I spent our golden era together. It’s where I learned that what matters most is who you’re with, what feeds your soul, and what makes your heart soar. All the experiences I had there, from tween to teen to adult, will always make up the fabric of who I am.
Grandma Helen will always be part of that fabric, too.
But recently widowed and in their mid-sixties, Marjorie and Eileen were searching for a place to live together. Their friendship started in a grief support group, where they found an understanding shoulder to cry on. A lump had formed in my throat as they told the story, because it was beautiful, and especially because their dynamic reminded me so much of Wanda and Grandma Helen.
For weeks after my grandmother passed away, I was afraid all I’d ever do was ache and cry. We had three days’ worth of goodbyes in the hospital, each day harder than the last. With each passing hour, she slipped away a little more, her words difficult to understand, her spark dimming.
As requested, I helped her reach out to my mom, playing intermediary and cheerleader through an extremely emotional video call. Mom flew out within hours of the call, making it to the hospital in time to say goodbye as well.
Watching her and Grandma repair what they could in those final hours broke something open in me and changed how I wanted to navigate relationships. I realized I didn’t want to spend the rest of my life resentful of my lost childhood. Nor did I want to bury myself under a pile of work with no end in sight to keep myself too busy to think, feel, experience.
The biggest thing I took from that—the lesson that didn’t quite stick the first time my grandmothers preached it—is that life truly is too precious and short for regrets.
So, right there in that hospital room, I told my mom that I wanted to work on our relationship. Setting boundaries, protecting my peace, and guarding my mental health were important, but so was rebuilding. I asked Mom if she’d be open to seeing a therapist with me to help us repair the damage, and she surprised me by agreeing to it.
The therapy sessions were still a bit messy and slow as we both found our footing and shared our feelings, but for the first time in years, I had something I hadn’t dared hope for when it came to my mom—hope.
We held a well-attended Celebration of Life event next to the Zen Garden after she passed. Residents shared stories; Wanda gave the eulogy; Mom shared a poem Grandma Helen loved; and I played “Long Live” a little clunkily on a keyboard, tears streaming down my face.
As I went to return to my seat, Mom intercepted me, throwing her arms around me and telling me the song was beautiful with tears in her eyes, not mentioning a thing about the notes I stumbled over or the pacing being a bit off. Larry and my siblings were there, too, of course, more relationships I vowed to better maintain.
Then we toasted to her memory and spread her ashes, and it was devastating and it was beautiful.
I moved in with Wanda for a while after that—using my new position as community manager to approve my staying as long as she needed me to, my age restriction getting thrown out the window.
And as wild as it is to admit at almost twenty-seven years old, I belong in this retirement community.
I push out the door of the main building, inhaling the air that carries the scents of hibiscus, jasmine, and the Tabebuia tree, which I would’ve referred to as a trumpet tree before Noah.
