She was the woman who raised me when my parents were emotionally distant, financially unstable, or simply uninterested in the exhausting responsibilities of parenthood. She ensured my uniforms were pressed, my school lunches prepared, my ambitions encouraged, and my fears listened to with patient warmth.
And she owned seven modest vacation cottages scattered across the Florida Keys.
They were never extravagant.
They were charming, weathered, pastel painted homes filled with ceiling fans that clicked softly at night, tin roofs that sang during storms, hammocks swaying lazily in salt scented breezes, and porch steps that creaked with familiar personality. I grew up repainting shutters beneath the relentless Florida sun, sweeping porches while humidity clung heavily to my skin, and repairing small imperfections alongside Grandma’s steady guidance.
“These cottages will protect you someday,” she always said gently. “But first, you must learn to protect them.”
After her passing, grief wrapped itself tightly around every memory, yet something inside me remained deeply unsettled.
Because Grandma was never careless.
She was meticulous.
Organized.
Intentional.