She passed away when I was just four years old.

But somehow—somehow—she was there for my graduation.

My grandma was everything to me in those few short years we had together. She made every birthday cake from scratch. Took me on every errand, every adventure. She had this soft, giving heart that never said no to someone in need.

She was love, in its purest form.

I don’t remember everything from that time, but I remember how safe I felt with her. How deeply I was loved.

Then, the night of my graduation, I got a text from my dad:
“I have a gift for you.”

The next morning, he came into my room. No big speech. No buildup. Just handed me something wrapped—quiet, simple, like she would’ve done.

I opened it. And there it was.

A letter.
From her.
Written 14 years ago.
For this exact day.

She’d written it before she passed—knowing she wouldn’t be there, but wanting me to feel her presence anyway. To know that she was proud of me. That she believed in the person I’d become.

I started crying.
The kind of crying that’s part heartbreak, part joy—and all love.

It was the most unexpected gift, the most beautiful surprise. A final hug from the woman who shaped my earliest years—and who, even in her absence, found a way to be part of this milestone.

She may be gone, but her love… it waited.
Fourteen years.
And still, right on time.