April 23, 2025
By: Malcolm Reyes

Growing up, it was always just me and Grandma Jean. My mom left when I was two, and my dad? Well, he was more of a ghost than a man. But Grandma… she was a force of nature.

She had this big old Buick that smelled like cinnamon gum and mothballs, and no matter where she went—whether it was the grocery store, church, or her weekly bingo nights—I was riding shotgun, legs barely reaching the glovebox. She talked a lot. Not in that nagging kind of way, but more like she was always trying to teach me something, even if I didn’t get it at the time.

As a teen, when most guys were fumbling through awkward locker room talk or trying to decode love from pop songs, she sat me down and gave me real talk. Not just about the birds and the bees, but about empathy. About what it really meant to care for someone, to listen, to make sure a woman feels safe, seen, and heard. She didn’t give me a script—she taught me to feel.

I carry those lessons with me every day. They shaped the man I became. When I met Talia—now my wife—I knew how to be with her, not just beside her. I knew that love isn’t about grand gestures or flashy lines, but consistency. Presence. Patience. And pleasure, yes, but the kind that comes from really understanding someone.

I’ve never told Talia the whole truth about how deeply Grandma influenced me. Not out of shame, but because some stories are stitched into your soul so intimately, they’re more feeling than fact.

Grandma passed last year. She was 92. I held her hand until the very end. Every time I catch a whiff of cinnamon, I smile. She’s still here. In me. In every soft moment between me and my wife.

And honestly? I think Grandma would be proud