We always thought it was just Grandma Ina’s thing.
Every evening at 7:00 p.m. sharp, no matter what, she pours a single glass of wine—same green goblet, same chair. Power outage, birthday, flu—it doesn’t matter. The ritual never changes.
She’s 105 now. Still sharp, still strong. Still gives me that signature eyebrow raise as she sips.
Last night, just the two of us sat in the quiet. I finally asked, “Why the wine? What’s it really for?”
She hesitated, then set her glass down and looked at me—like she was about to hand over something heavy.
“You sure you want to know?” she asked gently.
I nodded.
She looked away, searching the ceiling like it held a memory. Then she began.
“I was your age when it started. I had dreams. And someone I loved. His name was Henry.”
It was the first I’d heard of him.
“We had plans. But he changed. The drinking turned him cruel. He hit me once—hard. After that, I started pouring a glass of wine each night. Not to celebrate, but to cope. To forget.”
Even after she left him, the ritual stayed. Not out of pain anymore, but remembrance. A way to mark survival.
“It’s not something I’m proud of,” she said. “But it’s part of me. A reminder I made it through.”
I told her she didn’t need it anymore.
“I know,” she smiled. “But I’m not ready to let go. Not yet.”
That night, I understood: sometimes we hold on to habits not because we’re weak, but because they carry our stories. They helped us survive. And when we’re ready, we can choose to let go.
So if you’re still holding on to something—be gentle with yourself. Healing takes time. And strength doesn’t always look like moving on. Sometimes, it looks like honoring what kept you going.
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