For as long as I can remember, every Saturday morning followed the same pattern. Grandpa Thomas would wake before dawn, careful not to disturb Grandma Mollie, slip out of the house, and return with flowers.
Sometimes they were wildflowers he’d gathered himself. Other weeks, tulips from the market. And often, roses from the little flower shop downtown.
No matter what kind they were, they always waited in a vase on the kitchen table for Grandma to find when she woke.
When I was little, I once asked him why he did it every single week.
He smiled—the soft smile that creased the corners of his eyes—and said, “Love isn’t just a feeling, Grace. It’s an action. Something you choose to do, over and over.”
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