Oh, what a grandmother I have! At sixty-five, she not only remarried but also left for happiness in another country.
My grandmother is called Rose Margaret. She is sixty-five, but looking at her, you’d never believe it. Her expressions are full of life, her gaze bright, her posture straight, and her endless optimism could lift the spirits of even the tea she serves. She was never ordinary—not the kind of grandmother who knits socks and grumbles about life. No, Granny Rose always reached for something new, lived life to the fullest, and infected everyone around her with her passion for living.
When she retired, Mother and I expected her to slow down at last—tend to her garden, take up crocheting, or pickle cucumbers. But no. Suddenly, she became obsessed with a dream—to see France. She said, “I want to wake up to the scent of lavender in Provence.” We dismissed it as a whim. Yet Granny truly left—with a friend. Only, her friend returned home after two weeks, while Granny… stayed.
It turned out she found work there. She simply approached the owner of the house where she was staying and offered her services. He agreed. Granny began working as his housekeeper—cleaning, cooking, doing laundry. He was an elderly widower, a Frenchman, and as it later came to light, the very man who would change her life forever.
A year passed. Her visa expired, and Granny returned to England. But she seemed dimmed. She grew quiet, often lost in thought, wistful in the evenings. Mother and I couldn’t understand what was wrong. Then one day, she bought a laptop—her very first—and asked me to teach her how to use it. Naturally, I agreed. Soon, I noticed her spending hours at the screen, messaging someone, smiling to herself, sometimes even blushing.
Three months later, she announced she was getting married. Mother and I were stunned. Mother exploded—
“Mum, have you lost your mind? You’re sixty-five! I’m alone, your granddaughter isn’t even married yet, and now you? People will laugh!”
Granny Rose calmly looked at her and said,
“I don’t care. I won’t wither away in loneliness. I want to be loved. And Pierre… he wants me as his wife.”
Mother couldn’t believe it. She shouted, sulked, called it all nonsense. But I—I was happy for her. I saw the light in her eyes, how she grew younger, how her style changed. I hugged her and whispered,
“If you’re happy, then so am I. I’ll just miss you terribly.”
“We’ll see each other often. You’re my family. I just want to be with the one I love,” she replied.
And so she left. She married him. A month later, she returned—not alone, but with Pierre—for my wedding. My sweetheart James had proposed, and I’d said yes. At the reception, Granny glowed, and Mother no longer protested. For the first time, she looked at her mother with pride, not reproach.
Then Granny gave James and me the most astonishing gift—she handed us her flat. “I only need a home in France now,” she said. “Build your lives here.” We wept with joy.
Strangely enough, after that, Mother changed too. She joined a gym, refreshed her wardrobe, began taking care of herself. Just last week, I caught her smiling mysteriously at her reflection. I think she’s met someone.
You know, if there’s any proof in this world that happiness has no age limit—it’s my grandmother. She stayed true to herself. She wasn’t afraid to be happy. And now I believe anything is possible. Even love—at sixty-five.