Epilogue
Six months later…
I do a happy jig on my way out of the office, after giving a tour in the golf cart I’d inherited, decorative paper flowers, flamingo keychain, and all.
I meant to do a few more things before leaving for the day, and Past Mia would’ve kept her ass glued to the chair, no exceptions. But this gal? She’s finally learned the ways of the chill and today calls for a celebration.
I did it again! I’m amazing!
As of 4:37 this afternoon, Lakeview Retirement Village just hit the industry sweet spot at a whopping 96 percent.
It’d been impossible not to think about Grandma Helen as I drove the familiar path from the office to the ranch home with the Spanish-tile roof she and Wanda used to share.
That house is where nine grannies and I spent our golden era together. It’s where I learned that what matters most is who you’re with, what feeds your soul, and what makes your heart soar. All the experiences I had there, from tween to teen to adult, will always make up the fabric of who I am.
Grandma Helen will always be part of that fabric, too.
But recently widowed and in their mid-sixties, Marjorie and Eileen were searching for a place to live together.
Their friendship started in a grief support group, where they found an understanding shoulder to cry on.
A lump had formed in my throat as they told the story, because it was beautiful, and especially because their dynamic reminded me so much of Wanda and Grandma Helen.
For weeks after my grandmother passed away, I was afraid all I’d ever do was ache and cry. We had three days’ worth of goodbyes in the hospital, each day harder than the last. With each passing hour, she slipped away a little more, her words difficult to understand, her spark dimming.
As requested, I helped her reach out to my mom, playing intermediary and cheerleader through an extremely emotional video call. Mom flew out within hours of the call, making it to the hospital in time to say goodbye as well.
Watching her and Grandma repair what they could in those final hours broke something open in me and changed how I wanted to navigate relationships.
I realized I didn’t want to spend the rest of my life resentful of my lost childhood.
Nor did I want to bury myself under a pile of work with no end in sight to keep myself too busy to think, feel, experience.
The biggest thing I took from that—the lesson that didn’t quite stick the first time my grandmothers preached it—is that life truly is too precious and short for regrets.
So, right there in that hospital room, I told my mom that I wanted to work on our relationship.
Setting boundaries, protecting my peace, and guarding my mental health were important, but so was rebuilding.
I asked Mom if she’d be open to seeing a therapist with me to help us repair the damage, and she surprised me by agreeing to it.
The therapy sessions were still a bit messy and slow as we both found our footing and shared our feelings, but for the first time in years, I had something I hadn’t dared hope for when it came to my mom—hope.
We held a well-attended Celebration of Life event next to the Zen Garden after she passed. Residents shared stories; Wanda gave the eulogy; Mom shared a poem Grandma Helen loved; and I played “Long Live” a little clunkily on a keyboard, tears streaming down my face.
As I went to return to my seat, Mom intercepted me, throwing her arms around me and telling me the song was beautiful with tears in her eyes, not mentioning a thing about the notes I stumbled over or the pacing being a bit off.
Larry and my siblings were there, too, of course, more relationships I vowed to better maintain.
Then we toasted to her memory and spread her ashes, and it was devastating and it was beautiful.
I moved in with Wanda for a while after that—using my new position as community manager to approve my staying as long as she needed me to, my age restriction getting thrown out the window.
And as wild as it is to admit at almost twenty-seven years old, I belong in this retirement community.
I push out the door of the main building, inhaling the air that carries the scents of hibiscus, jasmine, and the Tabebuia tree, which I would’ve referred to as a trumpet tree before Noah.
Yes, I belong here, just no longer as a resident.
I moved in with Noah last month. Rita mentioned she was craving company and had two spare rooms, so Wanda moved in with her.
Naturally, I inherited Fifi, as the cat had decided I was the closest she could get to my grandma, and I felt similarly about her.
My kitty still wasn’t sure about Noah.
Speak of the handsome devil—my chariot has arrived, the Drayton Sustainable Landscaping truck pulling up to the curb to collect me.
I still get too wrapped up in projects sometimes, but living with Noah has been its own master class in balance. He’s good at reminding me to say no, just like he’s good at rubbing my aching shoulders when I accidentally say yes anyway.
Day by day, I fall more in love with him.
He’s given me such a safe place to grieve, a soft place to land, and that unconditional love I’d nearly given up on finding.
And when I’m tempted to burn the midnight oil or squeeze more into my schedule, he gently points out that he and Fifi would rather have me home.
Home.
A place where I spend plenty of time, no longer racing around and burning myself out, my evenings and weekends all mine.
I practically float over to the pickup truck, beaming at Noah as he meets me at the passenger door.
He’s just as much of a gentleman as he was on that first day he held the door for me—and just as capable of distracting me with a proper kiss involving the perfect combination of lips, scruff, and tongue.
“Mmm,” I say, pulling him in for another kiss. “I can’t wait to tell you about my day. I have the best news.”
“I can’t wait to hear it,” he says, assisting me into the truck.
Fifi greets me once I’m inside.
“Oh, hello, pretty girl,” I say, stroking her soft fur as she fills me in with insistent meows.
I raise an eyebrow at Noah as he settles behind the wheel—bringing her along isn’t exactly routine. Considering the ordeal it was moving her into a new place, I would’ve assumed she hated car rides.
“Listen,” he says. “She wanted to come, meowing at me like crazy and pawing at the door, and I couldn’t out-argue her. Not when we’re both just excited to get to you.”
Happiness floods me that he caters to both me and my cat, and that she still gets to be the diva of the family.
I slide next to Noah, and Fifi climbs on my lap, causing my grin to spread even wider.
All this space in the cab, and the three of us are squished together, and I wouldn’t have it any other way.
I melt against Noah’s side while Fifi plants her paws on the dashboard and demands we get going—she’s so very much like Grandma Helen sometimes that I can still feel her here with me. Cheering me on and calling me “dear girl” and telling me to take a break already.
My heart swells, and I can’t help but marvel at my journey from lonely, stressed-out workaholic to this blissful, bittersweet existence filled with love, laughter, and absolutely no regrets.