Grandma leaned against my arm, wrapped in her wool shawl, looking across the land her husband had cleared with his own hands fifty years earlier.
She took a long, peaceful breath of the cold winter air.
“Ivan?” she called out softly.
“Yes, Grandma?”
“Look at the garden.”
I looked across the quiet, snow-covered lawn, illuminated by the warm yellow light of the porch lamps.
“It’s beautiful,” I said.
She smiled—a real, whole, unburdened smile that held no ghosts, no fear, and no regrets.
“It’s ours,” she whispered. “And it’s home.”
