The Day I Became Her Story

Every Sunday afternoon, the old verandah echoed with stories and sunlight. Granny would sit on her rickety stool, her soft hands weaving my braids with as much care as she wove her tales. I, in turn, would sit still—partly to keep the braids neat, mostly to not miss a single word.

“You know,” she began one lazy noon as a cat purred on my lap, “you’re exactly like me.”

I giggled. “You always say that.”

“And it’s always true.” She smiled, her eyes twinkling behind folds of time. “Same stubborn forehead wrinkle, same wide eyes when you lie. But more than that, you have the same fire.”

She paused, tugging gently at a strand. I looked up. “What fire?”

“The fire to live many lives in one. To be a daughter, a writer, a dreamer, a rebel, and still have space left in your heart for love.” She chuckled. “When I was your age, I sat right here, same stool, same breeze, while my own grandmother braided my hair and said the same thing.”

I turned slightly, staring at her with wide eyes. “You mean, you were once like this too?”

She smiled, a faraway look entering her gaze. “Yes. And one day, like today, I asked her, ‘Why do you say I’m like you?’ And she said, ‘Because you’ll grow into me—slowly, silently, and beautifully.’”

I went quiet, my fingers still stroking the cat. “Is that why you say I’ll grow into you?”

Granny finished the braid and tied it with a red ribbon. “Yes. And not just me. You’ll carry pieces of every woman before you—your mother’s strength, my laughter, your great-grandmother’s silence. You won’t notice it. But one day, when you speak or cry or fight, you’ll hear their echoes in your voice.”

A warm wind rustled the potted plants beside us. The cat stretched.

“Will I also tell stories like you?” I asked.

Granny grinned. “You already do. Every day you live, you write another page.”

“But your stories are so... magical. Mine are silly.”

She shook her head. “No story is silly if it’s honest. You’ll see. Someday, your granddaughter will sit here, and you’ll tell her about me. And then…” she winked, “you’ll become my story.”

I didn’t quite understand it then. But something settled deep in my heart like a bookmark placed for later.

Years passed. Granny grew slower, quieter. One winter, she closed her eyes and never opened them again.

Now, I sit on the same stool. My own granddaughter fidgets as I braid her hair. The cat on her lap is different, but the wind is the same. I tell her of a woman with silver hair and hands soft as petals.

“Was she real?” she asks.

I nod, smiling. “Very real. And very much alive—in me, in you.”

She watches me, wide-eyed. “Will I become her too?”

“No,” I whisper, knotting the ribbon gently. “You’ll become me. And in doing that, you’ll become her.”

And just like that, Granny lives again.