My first love was not a boy—it was my grandmother.

When I was born, she lived with us, and some of my earliest memories are wrapped around her presence. I remember one day when we came home and found her lying on the ground. She had been giving the dog water, dropped the bowl, and fell. After that, she couldn’t live with us anymore because she needed more care. I was too young to understand the details. I just knew that the house felt different without her.

She passed away when I was nine. I don’t remember her face clearly, or her voice. My brother and sister say she had a strong Czech accent. What I do remember is the feeling she left behind—warm, safe, and happy. She was a steady presence in my early years. I would go into her room, and she’d let me sit on her lap while she rocked. She would check on me when I played, quietly sitting nearby just to keep me company. She made doll clothes for me and a little pillow I carried everywhere.

To this day, I don’t like peanut butter and jelly sandwiches because she always made me peanut butter and honey. Everyone who knew her said she was the best cook. I was told my grandfather wouldn’t eat day-old bread, so she baked a fresh loaf every single day. Her bread recipe is still a favorite in our family. I made it for my kids while they were growing up, and now my daughter makes it too. My favorite comfort food is still shell noodles with butter and cinnamon—simple, warm, and full of memory.

I don’t know if I’ll ever be a grandmother. My two wonderful kids are in their thirties and not thinking about parenting yet. But I do have the sweetest granddog, and I’ll happily take his kisses for now. He curls up on my lap, goes on walks with me, and playing with his toys with all the enthusiasm in the world.

If I ever get the chance to be a grandmother, I hope I can give the kind of love mine gave me—the quiet, steady kind that stays with a child long after the details fade. The kind you don’t always remember with your mind, but always feel in your heart. 💛