I was just five years old when my entire world shifted. My two younger brothers were four and one, and we had suddenly found ourselves in the care of someone who would become the anchor of our lives—our grandmother.

She was 73 years old at the time. Most people her age were settling into quiet routines, maybe resting after a lifetime of raising their own children. But not her. She opened her home and her heart to three little ones who needed her most. And I, the oldest and only girl at just five, didn’t understand back then just how much she was giving.

One Sunday, after church, she took us out to lunch—something simple, but it felt special. I don’t remember what we ate. What I do remember is how, in the middle of lunch, she turned to me and asked, “If I bought you a piano, would you take lessons and practice?”

I blinked at her, stunned, my little heart racing. “Yes!” I said, with all the excitement a five-year-old could muster. I could barely wait for it to arrive. The day the piano was delivered felt like Christmas, my birthday, and every happy day rolled into one. I was overjoyed.

That piano became more than a gift. It became part of me.

I loved taking lessons, of course, but I also loved sitting down and playing by ear—just feeling the music and letting it come alive through my fingers. As I got older, the piano was where I found myself. I played when I was happy, and I played when tears streamed down my face. It didn’t matter the mood—I always found comfort in those keys.

As a teenager, I started playing at a local nursing home, bringing joy to people who needed it. I became the pianist at my church and played for weddings, too. I didn’t think anyone noticed how much it meant to me—not even my grandmother. But years later, I realized she had been watching, even when I thought she wasn’t. She had been listening to the music, yes—but more than that, she had been watching my face, reading my emotions as they came out through the notes.

I had a deep desire to play every day—not because I had to, but because I loved it that much.

Later in life, I married into the military. That meant moving often—sometimes across the country, and twice overseas. But no matter where we went, the piano came too. Through every move, every home, every new season, it stood strong—a reminder of where I came from and the love that placed it in my life.

Now, we’re retired. Life has slowed down in many ways, but the music hasn’t. That same piano still sits proudly in our home, and I still play. Every time my fingers touch the keys, I think of her. My grandmother. The woman who stepped in when no one else could. The woman who gave me the greatest gift of my life—not just the piano, but a safe home, a steady hand, and a foundation of love.

She lived to be 96 years old. And now, on top of my piano, in a simple, beautiful frame, is a picture of her and me—just a girl and her grandmother, living life together. Every time I sit down to play, I smile at that photo. I feel her presence. I remember her kindness. And I know I was, and still am, so incredibly blessed.