The grandparents had been together for 62 years. Sixty-two. Three times longer than I’ve been alive. But for the past eight months, they’ve lived apart.
Grandpa requires special care, and no affordable place could take both of them. Grandma now spends every night alone in a smaller facility across town, for the first time in over six decades. Once, in private, she confided, “It’s the loneliness that hurts more than anything.”
Grandpa always asks, “Where’s my little mouse?” when we visit. His nickname for her. When she enters, his face lights up like he’s seeing her for the first time. But when visiting hours end, she has to leave. He calls after her, “Stay just a little longer, little mouse.” I have to guide her out.
After Sunday service, I visited Grandpa yesterday, expecting him to be in his recliner, waiting for lunch or watching Westerns. Instead, I arrived to find the nurses acting strangely—soft, too careful.
Then I saw Grandma sitting by his side, holding his hand as if she never intended to let go.
Something had changed.
I approached, heart pounding, but before I could say anything, she looked up, her eyes full, and spoke six words that made my stomach turn:
“I never want to leave him.”
I didn’t know what to say. I didn’t know what to do.
But I knew, then, that nothing would ever be the same.
That night, I couldn’t sleep. The image of Grandma holding Grandpa’s hand kept me awake. I thought of their wedding photo, still sitting on their dresser—two young people staring at each other, as if the world was theirs to conquer. Now, at the end of their journey, money was tearing them apart.
The next morning, my mother and I sat in the kitchen, the coffee cooling between us.
“There has to be a way,” I said. “We can’t accept this.”
Mom sighed. “We’ve tried everything, sweetheart. We moved in with family, got extra help at home, but he needs full-time medical care. We can’t afford a private facility that can take them both.”
That afternoon, after pacing around my house, I called our church priest. He had known my grandparents for years and had blessed their marriage decades ago.
“I don’t know what to do,” I said, feeling embarrassed. “But this isn’t right. They shouldn’t have to live apart at the end.”
Father Dominic paused. “Let me see what we can do. I’ll talk to the congregation after mass on Sunday.”
That Sunday, after mass, Father Dominic shared my grandparents’ story with the congregation. As he spoke about love, commitment, and the painful limits of money, I squeezed my mom’s hand in the pew, heart racing. Then something incredible happened.
People started to act. A woman from the front row pulled out her checkbook. A retired nurse volunteered to help. Someone I didn’t even know offered monthly donations. Before I could fully process it, Father Dominic said, “We take care of our own.”
I had never seen such a display of community support. Money, furniture, medical supplies, and volunteers for daily care started to flow in. Someone even knew of a small assisted-living home that could take both of them at a discount. It wasn’t perfect, but it was enough.
The day we moved Grandma into Grandpa’s new room, she was walking faster than I’d ever seen her. Without waiting for me to put her luggage down, she wrapped her arms around him, crying. I hadn’t heard him call out for his “little mouse” in months.
Because she was finally there.
Love isn’t just about big moments like weddings or anniversaries. It’s about the quiet sacrifices, the loyalty, and the determination to stay, even when the world tries to pull you apart.
If you believe that love should never be separated by money, share this story. Let people know that sometimes, a community can keep love alive.
