When someone adopts a child, people usually smile approvingly, nod respectfully, and even get emotional. It’s something noble, right, touching. But what if I told you I did something similar, yet entirely different? I didn’t go to an orphanage; I went to a nursing home. And I brought home a grandmother who wasn’t mine. A stranger, forgotten by everyone. You can’t imagine how many people turned up their noses when they found out.
“Have you lost your mind? Life is already so difficult, your daughters are still young, and you’re bringing an elderly person home?” That was the general reaction. Even my friends looked at me oddly. Even my neighbor, with whom I used to drink coffee at the square, frowned.
But I ignored them because I knew it was the right thing to do.
Previously, there were four of us at home: my two daughters, my mother, and me. We lived happily, taking care of each other. But eight months ago, I lost my mother. It was a blow that still takes my breath away. An emptiness in the house, in my soul, in my heart. The empty sofa, the morning silence in the kitchen where her voice used to echo… Now there were only three of us, like orphans.
Months went by. The pain lessened slightly, but the absence remained. Until one day, upon waking, I realized something important: we had a warm home, helping hands, and open hearts. Somewhere, someone was languishing in loneliness, surrounded by four walls, with no one. Why not offer that warmth to someone who desperately needed it?
I had known Aunt Rosario since I was little. She was the mother of Adrián, my childhood friend—a cheerful and affectionate woman who always welcomed us with pastries and laughed like a child. But Adrián got lost along the way. At thirty, he began drinking uncontrollably. Shortly afterward, he sold his mother’s apartment, squandered all the money, and disappeared. Rosario ended up in a nursing home.
Sometimes, my daughters and I visited her. We brought her fruits, cookies, and homemade food. She continued smiling, but her eyes revealed unbearable loneliness and deep shame. At that moment, I knew I couldn’t leave her there. I discussed it at home. My eldest daughter immediately agreed, and little Lucía, four years old, shouted excitedly: “We’re going to have a grandma again!”
You should have seen Rosario cry when I suggested she come live with us. She squeezed my hand, deeply moved. The day we picked her up from the nursing home, she looked like a child, carrying only a small bag, trembling hands, and a look of gratitude that left me speechless.
We’ve been together for almost two months now. Do you know what’s most amazing? I can’t understand where this woman finds so much energy. She gets up before everyone else, makes pancakes, cleans the house, and cares for the girls. It’s as if she had been reborn. My daughters and I joke that Grandma Rosario is our human motor. She plays with Lucía, tells stories, knits gloves, and sews dresses for dolls. Our house has regained its soul.
I’m not a heroine, really. I don’t want this to look like a grand gesture. I just realized that when you lose someone, you think you’ll never love that way again. But that’s not true. Kindness returns. And if the world lost the grandmother who made your favorite pancakes, maybe it’s necessary to open the door to another whom nobody remembers.
Yes, I didn’t adopt a child. But I rescued a grandmother from oblivion. And perhaps this is, in its own way, a genuine act of love.