Just before my grandmother passed, she asked me for one final favor:
— “One year after I’m gone, remove my photo from the gravestone. Not before. Promise me.”
I didn’t understand, but I promised.
A year later, I kept that promise. At the cemetery, I unscrewed the frame — and gasped.
Behind her photo was a faded picture of a young woman, glowing with joy. She looked just like me.
I brought it to my grandfather. He smiled warmly.
— “That’s how she looked when I met her. She didn’t want people to remember only the old version of her. She wanted you to see the woman full of life.”
She wasn’t being vain — she was sharing a final gift: a glimpse of who she truly was, beyond time and wrinkles. And through that, I saw her more clearly than ever.
