The Grandmother Who Waited – Extended Version

Every afternoon at exactly four o’clock, Mrs. Elena would appear at her window, across the street from my apartment. She sat in her worn wicker chair, hands resting in her lap, staring at the corner of the street as if expecting someone who might never come. I had noticed her weeks ago, but I dismissed it at first. People sit by windows, right? But soon, it became impossible to ignore.

Three weeks of the same routine. Every day, four o’clock sharp, the same chair, the same posture, and the same distant look. And yet, no one ever joined her. Her grandson, Matías, never came.

It was Thursday afternoon when curiosity—and concern—got the better of me. I crossed the street and knocked on her door.

“Yes?” she answered, small and frail, with a loose white bun atop her head and eyes that had once sparkled like the sea.

“I live across the street,” I said. “I just wanted to see if you were okay.”

She smiled, but it was a smile touched with sadness.

“I’m fine, young man. I’m just waiting for my grandson. He promised he’d visit this week.”

“Does he visit often?” I asked, trying to sound casual.

“Well… he’s busy. Work, family, life. But he said Monday. This time, he’ll come.”

It was Thursday.

“I see,” I said, feeling a tightness in my chest. “If you ever need anything, I live across the street, third floor.”

“Thank you,” she said softly, closing the door.

The next day, four o’clock. She was there again. Saturday, Sunday… the same routine, always at that window. Her patience, quiet and steadfast, gnawed at me.

By Monday, I made a decision. I bought two alfajores and a coffee at the corner bakery and knocked on her door at ten past four.

“Hello,” I said, trying to appear casual. “I thought maybe you’d like some company.”

Her eyes widened. “With me?”

“Yes, if it’s not too much trouble.”

“Oh no, of course not. Come in.”

Her apartment smelled faintly of lavender and old wood, a mixture of home and memory. We sat surrounded by photographs of Matías—baby pictures, first communion, graduation, even his wedding. She told me stories behind each one: his first steps, his first day at school, the way he used to run to her whenever he was scared.

“That’s Matías,” she said, following my gaze. “A good boy. Life’s complicated for him right now, but he’s a good boy.”

We spent hours talking that first day. She spoke of her late husband, the man who had built their home brick by brick, of the afternoons spent playing chess, baking cookies, and reading aloud.

“It’s been six months since Matías came,” she said finally, voice breaking. “But I understand. Life moves fast. He’ll come. I know he will.”

From that day on, I made it a point to visit every afternoon. Sometimes I brought coffee, sometimes cookies, sometimes only my presence. We played cards, watched the five o’clock soap opera, or simply sat in silence, watching the city move below us.

Over the weeks, we shared more than just time. I learned about her fears, her regrets, and her joys. She told me how lonely the nights had been, how she worried that her memory would fade before Matías had the chance to remember her. She confessed she often imagined him sitting across from her, laughing at her silly jokes.

I told her about my own life, my small victories, my struggles at work, and my own loneliness. Somehow, she listened without judgment, and I realized that in the quiet of those afternoons, a strange and profound friendship had formed.

One rainy afternoon, she looked at me with a mischievous glint in her eyes.

“You know, Martín,” she said, “I used to think I was waiting for someone who would never come. But now, I realize I’ve been waiting for you.”

I felt my throat tighten. “And I’ve been waiting for you, Mrs. Elena,” I said, softly.

The weeks turned into months. The summer passed, and her chair by the window grew even more familiar. We laughed, we cried, and we shared stories that only two people who understood the fragility of time could share.

Then one day, she told me Matías had called.

“He said he’s sorry. He’s been so busy that he didn’t realize how much time had passed. He promised he’d come soon,” she said, smiling through tears.

I nodded. We both knew “soon” might never come.

“But you know what, Martín,” she said, resting her hand on mine, “I’m okay. Because now I have you.”

“And I have you,” I replied.

From then on, she no longer waited at the window alone. Now we sit together, tea in hand, watching the afternoons drift by. She smiles and laughs freely, no longer lonely, no longer just waiting.

Sometimes I think of Matías and what he misses. But then I see Mrs. Elena laughing at one of my terrible jokes and realize: some families aren’t chosen by blood, but by presence.

And presence, I’ve learned, is everything.