Rachel believes she is only protecting her reputation when she excludes her grandmother from her lavish wedding because of a small, strange gift. However, grief has a way of revealing the truth, and she will be shocked by what she discovers in a dusty bag of walnuts.
I spent more of my childhood at Grandma Jen’s house than at home. John and Miranda, my parents, were always at work, exchanging money for status and time for money. Grandma’s old cottage, with its creaky porch, lavender-scented doilies, and flooring that creaked with every step, was situated at the outskirts of town.
It was a sense of security to me.
Before school, Grandma Jen would braid my hair while singing quietly as she worked through the tangles. Even though the braids were never flawless and were usually a touch loose, when she finished them, they nevertheless felt like a crown. She would sip her tea and read the paper to me while I sat on the floor next to her rocking chair. She had only ever read the humorous stories, never the tragic or dangerous ones. Her laughter always preceded the punchline, and even though I didn’t get the joke, I still found it funny.
She would prepare the same meals each evening. Simple but always filling and cozy, such as crisp green beans with butter, soft potatoes with black pepper, and scrambled eggs and sausages that were superior to anything from a restaurant. She simply did what seemed right; she didn’t follow any recipes. "These are the meals that stick to your bones, my Rachel,” she would say as she put the plates down.
And every night, just before bedtime, she’d sit alongside me on the couch with a tiny bowl of walnuts. They were previously broken and cleaned, and put in small half. She always made sure I didn’t have to do the work. “Eat these, sweetheart,” she’d say, placing them gently in my hands. “They’ll make your heart stronger.”
One night, I remember looking at her with my head inclined, trying to make sense of her remarks.
“Stronger how, Gran?” I inquired.
Touching her chest over her heart, she said, “In all the ways that matter, sweet girl. In the ways that they can’t see on a scan.”
I had a congenital heart problem from birth. I had undergone several procedures by the time I reached seven. In some years, I was more accustomed to hospital rooms than to my own white and pink bedroom. I pulled my shirts up higher than the other girls because of a big, pale scar on my chest.
However, Grandma Jen never gave me the impression that I was fragile. She gave me a sense of completeness.
She was my warmth, my safety net, and everything to me back then. The only consistency in my life was Grandma Jen.
However, things took a turn.
Life seemed to go more quickly as I grew older, or perhaps I simply stopped observing the slower times. My parents began lavishing me with money as a reward since they were constantly striving for more. All of a sudden, my existence revolved on summers in Italy, private school fees, luxury clothing, and ski vacations.
I suddenly stopped wanting the straightforward dinners and peaceful evenings. Grandma Jen’s humming and the aroma of lavender began to fade from my memory.
And for some reason, I told myself that I was just maturing.
And gradually, I began to feel that Grandma’s house was getting old. The colors seemed to have faded, but I knew in my heart that I, not the home, was the one who had changed.
Every time I thought about it, I imagined it to be dusty and stale. I started to roll my eyes at the charm that I once loved. I stopped going as frequently, and when I did, I would check the clock and look through my phone while sitting with one foot partially outside the door.
I once entered without saying hello and wrinkled my nose. I wasn’t proud of myself, but I had ended up that way for some reason.
I whispered, “It smells like old people in here,” and slung my coat over the back of her chair.
Grandma Jen grinned quietly as she lifted her head from her crossword problem.
“That’s the smell of lavender and rosemary, honey,” she explained. “You used to love it, Rachel.”
Now that I think about it, I wince. However, I didn’t respond to her. All I did was open a window.
Nevertheless, she made a call every single week. I occasionally gave half-hearted answers while she was speaking, still wearing my earplugs and scrolling, but she never seemed to bother.
She asked me if I was eating healthily, getting enough sleep, and remembering to take my heart medicine in the same kind of kind manner.
And the same kind words concluded each call.
She’d say, “Be kind, sweetheart. The world’s already too cruel.”
I never responded. I didn’t even let her know that I missed and loved her. I simply informed her that I was busy.
I became engaged to Grant at the age of 22. He wore old money clothes and came from old money. His parents had a winery and a chain of eateries in Napa. He had a watch that probably cost more than Grandma Jen’s whole house, wore cufflinks to breakfast, and drove a silver Audi.
Naturally, the wedding grew into a major occasion. We invited 500 people to a location beside the water. I had a celebrity chef meal, three stunning gowns, and a unique floral arch that was taller than the wedding party.
Everybody present had a business card, a brand, or a title that shouted riches. On the list, Grandma Jen wasn’t.
My mother said, “She raised you,” with tears in her eyes. “Please, Rachel. Just invite her. For me, darling.”
“She doesn’t know anyone, Mom. Other than you, Dad, and the few family members who made the cut, Gran won’t know anyone. She’ll feel out of place,” I stated with a long sigh.
“Firmly, ‘She’ll come for you, Rachel,’” my mother said. “She’ll see you looking radiant and happy, and that’s all she’s ever wanted for you.”
Thus, I grudgingly put my grandmother’s name to the list.
Guests glistened in dresses and tuxedos on the wedding day. Grant appeared as though he had just walked off a catwalk. The fountain played a string quartet. Everything appeared wealthy and opulent.
Grandma Jen then showed up. She appeared as though she had briefly entered an other reality.
Wearing her old blue dress, which was well pressed but clearly worn, she went slowly. Her shoes were mismatched, her hair was put back in a basic clip, and she was holding a worn cloth bag with torn corners and a stain close to the zipper.
I assumed I would be able to leave without saying hello, but then her gaze met mine.
“My Rachel,” she smiled and whispered softly. “I brought you something. Please open it soon, okay? It’s my gift. There’s a surprise inside, darling.”
The bag was shoved into my hands by her. I took a look inside.
Walnuts. Walnuts, dusty, cracked, and dry.
Heat made my cheeks flush.
“Are you serious right now?” I said in a strong yet hushed voice. “You brought me a bag of dirty walnuts. To my wedding?”
“They’re special,” she remarked, blinking slowly, like she was fighting back tears.
But I couldn’t stop the words from flowing out.
“It’s a dirty bag, Grandma. This is embarrassing!”
I turned my head away, and she did the same for the first time in my life.
My voice broke. I’m not sure if it was the agony of knowing that I had just crossed a boundary that I couldn’t uncross, wedding anxiety, or shame. The music continued to play around us, delicate and tasteful, but I sensed that it was moving more slowly, like if time were hesitating.
Like static, I could feel the pain and the looks reverberating across the reception tent.
Grant remarked, “It’s okay, just take the gift,” as he fell into step next to me.
I shook my head, though.
“You can’t just show up with… trash, Grant,” I remarked sharply and in a low voice. “Not after saying how much I mean to you… Come on, Gran… Even you know this wasn’t okay.”
Not even my granny gave me a glance.
“Just go,” I muttered.
Grandma Jen remained silent. She steadied herself against the table’s edge and stood there for a moment. She avoided looking into my eyes. With a faint, hardly perceptible nod, she turned and walked away, her feet deliberate and quiet, as if she didn’t want to make a sound.
She was not stopped. Nobody spoke. Even before she left the room, it seemed as though the air itself had folded in and carried her absence.
With tears already streaming down her face, my mother clasped a hand to her mouth. She began to move, but I turned my head away.
I didn’t give a damn. I told myself I didn’t, however.
Grandma Jen gave me a call two days later. My phone flashed up with her name, and I just gazed at it, without moving. I let it ring out even though my chest felt constricted. I was unable to face her.
Later that night, she gave another call.
“Grandma, I’m really busy. Can we talk later?” I replied.
“I just wanted to know if you opened my gift, Rachel,” she said.
“Not yet, okay? I’ll get to it eventually. But please, stop calling me about stupid things. I know what walnuts taste like, Gran. Opening them today or tomorrow isn’t going to change that.”
She said, “Of course, sweetheart,” following a protracted silence. “I’m sorry to disturb you.”
She didn’t give another call.
My mother’s name appeared on the screen of my phone when it rang two months later while I was getting ready for a picture session Grant had planned. While brushing my hair, I responded on the speaker.
I said, “Mom, I’m busy. Can this wait? I’m getting ready for a shoot, and you know how photographers can be if you’re late.”
My mother said, “Rachel,” in a hollow voice. “Grandma Jen… she’s gone.”
I sat down and said, “What? What do you mean? Gone where?”
“Darling, she’s… her heart gave out.”
I stood beside her coffin at the funeral. She folded her hands as though she was still awaiting something. Her favorite hue, soft pink, was used to paint her nails. And the subtle aroma of lavender permeated everything.
It had a familiar scent. And I was trembling uncontrollably.
Her giggle reverberated in the corridor, her soft humming reverberated in the kitchen, and I remembered how she would clean my face with a warm cloth after I had filled it full of banana bread and walnuts.
I recalled how mom always used the flowery handkerchief she carried in her pocket or sleeve to wipe my hands. It smelled of being cared for, along with laundry softener and starch.
I sobbed all over at the funeral. Someone grabbed me before I hit the ground because my legs gave out. I was sobbing that I was having trouble breathing.
I got in the automobile that evening. My parents’ house is where I should have stayed. Grant should have been my driver. However, I had to get moving; I had to do anything at all to get rid of the guilt that was tearing at my chest. Through my tears, the headlights became blurry.
“I just need to get home,” I told myself repeatedly. “I need the bag. I need to open it. I need to crack open those walnuts.”
However, I never succeeded.
The vehicle veered. It was a sudden, harsh impact. Then there was darkness.
Two days later, I awoke in the hospital with tubes protruding from both arms, gauze wrapped around my legs, and painful ribs. My face was heated and swollen.
There was Grant. He appeared pale and in a panic.
My throat felt dry and parched as I tried to speak.
He leaned forward and murmured, “Rachel? You’re awake. Oh, thank God!”
I yelled, “Please, the walnuts. Please, Grant. Please.”
“What?” he inquired, perplexed.
I muttered, “The bag. Grandma Jen. It’s in the pantry. Please bring it.”
His words were hesitant, as if I may change my mind. “Okay, I’ll go get it now,” he said.
He gave it to me cautiously when he got back. The fabric was rumpled. That faded stain was still there in the corner. My fingers shaking, I drew it into my lap.
They had the same appearance at initially. Ordinary, dreary, and dry.
I opened the initial one.
A small folded note, yellowed but carefully tucked inside, was inside.
“Be kind, Rachel. The world can be cruel, but don’t let it change you.”
I broke another. A twenty-dollar cash landed in my lap.
“Save, Rachel. Save for your future.”
I was unable to contain myself. When my chest heaved, a monitor was activated. I cried and shook my head when a nurse hurried in to inquire whether I was in any discomfort.
They all loved her, walnut after walnut. And her voice, her counsel, and her savings. Grandma Jen has been working on this gift for years. Even after I had pushed her aside and looked her in the eye, she had continued to think of me and believe in me.
The final walnut was cracked by me. One last note, in slightly smudged ink, was inside.
“We all make mistakes, my sweet girl. You deserve forgiveness. It’s never too late to choose love.”
I put it against my chest. As I spoke, my entire body trembled.
Whispering, “I’m sorry, Grandma. I’m so, so sorry.”
I requested my husband to take me to the beach a week after I felt well enough to leave the hospital. There were no inquiries from him.
The breeze was like a blanket I didn’t deserve as I sat barefoot in the beach. The lake was turning a gentle shade of pink as the sun started to set.
I reached into my pocket and took out one walnut.
My words were, “I wish I could go back,” out loud. “I’d hug you tighter. I’d open the bag the moment you handed it to me. I’d tell you that your hands weren’t dirty, but that they were the cleanest and warmest touch I’d ever known.”
The waves sighed and hushed in response.
I broke the walnut. This time, there was only the nut—simple and complete—and no note.
I consumed it. I then let out a cry into the ocean.
I said, “Thank you, Grandma Jen,” to the water. “Thank you.”
After a few days, I was in the kitchen before the sun came up. Except for the gentle hum of the refrigerator and the sporadic creak of the floorboards beneath my bare feet, the home was silent.
Wearing his robe, Grant sipped his morning espresso from a glass cup while seated at the marble counter. Suddenly, the sleekness of everything—the imported ceramic plates, the high-backed bar stools, the stainless-steel appliances—felt frigid.
I took a bag of potatoes out of the refrigerator and began peeling them.
“You’re up early,” Grant remarked softly. “You didn’t sleep again?”
When I said, “I just… wanted to make something,” I was quiet.
I sliced the potatoes into quarters and threw them into a skillet with butter as he watched. Like Grandma Jen used to do, I simply added salt and black pepper without measuring anything. A wave of the stench hit me. I briefly closed my eyes.
He put down his cup and asked, “What are you making?”
Saying, “Just something simple, she used to make it for me all the time. Buttery potatoes. Scrambled eggs. And sausages if she had them. She always said the simplest meals meant the most if they were made with love.”
Grant leaned on the island as he walked around the counter. He stood close to me without touching me.
His words were soft. “I didn’t know that about her,” he murmured.
“She was everything to me once,” I replied. “I forgot. Or maybe I chose to forget.”
“I was shocked, Rach. What you said to her… it wasn’t you. Not really. It wasn’t the woman I fell in love with.”
I blinked back tears as I moved away from the stove.
“But it was me. That version of me—the one who cared more about appearances than people. I let that version of me grow for too long.”
He moved in closer and grasped my hand.
“But you’re not that girl anymore. I see you now. The real you. And I love you more,” stated my spouse.
Between us, I placed the plate of eggs and buttery potatoes. No garnish. No Instagram moment. With each bite, there’s a silent apology. In some way, it seemed as though she was also present at the table, her soul interwoven with the steam emanating from the food.
And I allowed someone to love me while I wept for the first time in months.
