By Emily W. Parker • January 26, 2026 • Share
My grandparents were married for fifty-seven years, but if you asked anyone in our family what made their marriage feel almost unreal, they wouldn’t say “big gestures” or “fancy vacations.” They’d say, “Saturday flowers.”
Every single Saturday—no exceptions—my grandfather Thomas brought my grandmother fresh flowers. Sometimes it was a wild, joyful handful he’d picked from a roadside stand: daisies and Queen Anne’s lace spilling out like laughter. Sometimes it was neat tulips, lined up like soldiers, bright and proud. In autumn, he’d come home with deep orange chrysanthemums that made the kitchen feel warm even before the oven was on.
He had a routine that was so reliable it became part of the house’s heartbeat. He’d wake up early, when it was still dim and the world sounded softer. He’d move quietly so he wouldn’t wake her. He’d trim the stems, fill the vase, and place the bouquet on the kitchen table like a secret gift from the morning. Then he’d sit down with his coffee and wait.
My grandmother, Evelyn, would come in a little later in her slippers, hair tousled, still half in dreams. She’d pretend to be surprised every time. “Oh my,” she’d say, one hand on her chest like a stage actress. “Thomas. Again?” He’d look up over his mug with the same crooked grin he’d worn in every photo of him from the last fifty years. “It’s Saturday,” he’d answer, like that explained everything. And it did.
A week ago, he died. There’s no dramatic way to say it. One moment, his hand was in hers, and the next, it wasn’t holding back anymore. My grandmother stayed beside him until the room felt too still, until the air itself seemed to realize he wasn’t coming back.
After the funeral, the house didn’t just feel quiet. It felt wrong. Like the walls had memorized his footsteps and couldn’t understand why they weren’t hearing them anymore. I stayed with my grandmother that week—partly because I wanted to help, partly because I couldn’t stand the idea of her sitting alone in a home that echoed with a life that had ended.
We sorted through his things in slow, careful pieces: his neatly folded sweaters, his reading glasses, the drawer where he kept spare batteries and rubber bands like he was guarding the world from inconvenience. At night, my grandmother would sit in the living room with a blanket on her lap and stare at the empty recliner beside hers.
Sometimes she’d speak like he was just in the other room. “Thomas always said the weather would turn by October,” she murmured one evening, eyes fixed on the dark window. “He could smell it.”
I didn’t know what to do with grief that looked so calm it was almost polite. So I did what I could: I made tea, I washed dishes, I stayed close.
And then Saturday came.
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