We always thought it was just her thing.
Every night at exactly 7:00, Grandma Ina pours herself one glass of wine—same green goblet, same old chair, no matter where she is. Doesn’t matter if there’s a birthday party happening, or a tornado watch, or if she’s sick in bed. That wine gets poured.
She’s 105 now. Still sharp, still stubborn, still judging every decision I make with one raised eyebrow and a sip.
Last night, it was just the two of us in the living room. Quiet. The kind of quiet that makes you say things you wouldn’t normally say.
So I asked her. “Why do you do it? The wine. What’s it really about?”
That’s when she paused, the glass held halfway to her lips. For a moment, I thought she hadn’t heard me. But then she lowered the goblet and set it gently on the table, looking at me as though she were weighing the decision to share something that had been hidden for a long time.
“You really want to know?” she asked, her voice softer than usual, more vulnerable.
I nodded. I had always wondered. My whole life, it had been a constant. There was a comfort in the routine of it—the ritual of watching her sip her wine, always at 7 p.m., always in the same chair, always with a slight, almost imperceptible sigh of relief. It was part of her, part of the fabric of our family. But last night, for some reason, the question seemed to demand an answer.
