I grew up in my grandmother Jen’s small cottage, a place that always smelled like lavender and home-cooked potatoes. My parents were always working, chasing the next big promotion, so Jen was the one who really raised me. Because I was born with a heart defect, she used to sit me down every night with a bowl of walnuts, telling me they’d make my heart strong. As I got older, though, I started to look down on her simple life. I got caught up in my parents’ world of designer labels and expensive trips. When I got engaged to a man from a wealthy family, I didn’t even want to invite her because I was afraid she’d embarrass me. I eventually gave in, but on my wedding day, she showed up in a plain dress holding a faded cloth bag. When she handed it to me and said it was a special gift, I peeked inside and saw nothing but dusty walnuts.
For the next few days, I stayed angry. When she called me once to ask if I’d opened the gift yet, I told her to stop bothering me about something so stupid and hung up. That was the last time we ever spoke. Two months later, my mother called to tell me that Grandma Jen had died of heart failure I went home that night feeling completely broken, and I finally went looking for that cloth bag I had tossed aside. I had spent my whole life trying to be “somebody” in high society, but in that moment, I felt smaller and more ashamed than I ever had before.
I sat on my kitchen floor and pulled out the first walnut, cracking it open with a heavy heart. I expected to find a dried-up nut, but instead, a small, folded piece of paper fell out. It was a note from Jen telling me to stay kind because the world is already too cruel.