AFTER MY GRANDDAD DIED, I LOOKED UNDER HIS MATTRESS & REGRETTED NOT DOING IT SOONER
I stood there, paralyzed by disbelief, in Grandpa’s room, that this kind, man of immense stature had departed from this world. I gravitated towards his bed — the singular item he had perpetually warned me against touching. “Never even consider raising that mattress, young lady. It harbors secrets you couldn’t possibly fathom,” he’d say.
Curiosity had always intrigued me, yet I never risked defying his decree. Now that he had departed, I concluded I was at liberty to act as I wished. With some trepidation, I elevated the mattress, anticipating very little. But the revelation that lay beneath filled me with a profound regret for my tardiness. 😳👇Nestled beneath the old mattress, carefully arranged in rows, were stacks of letters. Yellowed and worn with age, each envelope bore a familiar, elegant script – my grandmother’s. My heart clenched. She had passed away years before, and I’d always assumed their love story was one of quiet contentment, devoid of grand gestures or passionate declarations.
I gently picked up the top letter, my fingers trembling. The date was from their courtship days. Inside, the words danced across the page, filled with longing, admiration, and a love so profound it made my eyes well up. “My dearest Thomas,” it began, “Every moment without you feels like an eternity…” I unfolded another, and then another, each a testament to a deep, unwavering devotion I had never suspected.
As I continued to read, the picture of my grandparents that I had always held in my mind shattered. They weren’t just content; they were madly, deeply in love. And Grandpa, the stoic, practical man I knew, had kept these letters safe, a secret treasure representing the greatest joy of his life.
The regret washed over me in waves. Why hadn’t I asked him about Grandma? Why hadn’t I pried, pushed, and shown a greater interest in their history? He carried this hidden world within him, and I had been too oblivious, too caught up in my own life to even glimpse it. He could have shared these stories, these moments of joy and heartbreak, and I would have been honored to listen.
The final letter I opened wasn’t from Grandma. It was written in Grandpa’s shaky hand, dated just a week before he passed. It was addressed to me.
“My darling (your name),” it read, “These letters are proof of a love that transcends time and space. Your grandmother was the sun in my sky, the reason I woke up every morning. I kept these close, a reminder of the best part of my life. I couldn’t bring myself to share them while I was still here. They were too precious, too personal. But now, I want you to know. I want you to understand the depth of the love that shaped me, that shaped our family. Hold onto them, remember us, and know that love like this is possible. It exists. And I hope, with all my heart, that you find it too.”
Tears streamed down my face. The regret remained, a sharp ache in my chest, but it was now mingled with a profound sense of peace. He had wanted me to know. And in the end, he had found a way to share his most treasured secret, a legacy of love passed down from one generation to the next. The letters weren’t just a reminder of his love for Grandma, but a testament to his love for me, a final, heartfelt gift from a granddad I suddenly understood so much better. I carefully gathered the letters, holding them close, knowing that I would cherish them forever. His secrets were no longer hidden; they were now a part of me.