One diary entry and the world I thought I knew feels as though it’s crumbling around me. The words read in history books don't compare to the ones spoken by a person I love. “Grams, why haven't you ever told this to any of us?” I ask her.

Grams’s head sinks into the pillow, and her unfocused gaze floats to the ceiling. “No one told the survivors how to deal with the after effects of having their lives torn apart. There weren't many of us around.”

“Yes, but there had to be some kind of help, right?” I ask.

Grams chuckles softly as if what I said was a joke. “Emma, it would be like a person who has never suffered from some type of addiction telling an addict that they can move on from their habit, and how to do so. Unless you've lived through it, you can't preach advice to the victims. Plus, most of the memories were too painful to face, and I had to lock them away in that diary.” I understand what she's saying, but never talking about it, even with us, doesn't make sense. It hurts.

“Talking always helps me,” I tell her.

“I'm talking to you now, sweetie,” she says.

“What about Mom and Annie?” I ask.

Grams shakes her head ever so slightly. “I don't want them to know. They're too sensitive, and it’s too late to explain why I never answered the questions they have asked so many times before.”

Without even thinking, I say, “It can be our secret.” As the words came out, I knew it wouldn’t be just some simple secret to hold onto. I would be imprinted on my life.

“I want you to hold onto it, so it's never forgotten.”

I take Grams’s hand and squeeze it tenderly. “I can do that for you.”

With a profound inhale, she glances back at me with solidity burning from her gaze. “I don't want the surgery tomorrow.”

“No way,” I argue. “It's the only way to prevent you from having another stroke. You were lucky this time. It was mild. You may not be so lucky next time. There's no other choice, Grams.”

“Emma,” she says, complacently, “there is another way.”

“What? No, there isn't. You are not going to rot, not after what you've already been through.”

“I'm ninety-two. I'm too old for surgery. I'm too old for miracles. It's time for me to make peace with my life and move on.” She speaks as though she's been contemplating this for a while, but I don’t understand how anyone can so easily become resigned to dying. Death scares me. I thought it scared most people. Though, Grams isn’t most people—I know that more than ever now.

“You still have more life to live,” I tell her, spitting out empty words with nothing to back up my reasoning.

“Em, I live by myself, talk to myself, eat by myself, and think to myself all day, every day.”

“I'll come over more. I'll have meals with you, and you can talk to me whenever you want. Please, I’m not ready to let you go.” I'm begging for her to change her mind, but I know the look in her eye. It’s the look she makes when she's made a final decision.

“You need to start a life of your own,” she says.

“I have a life of my own,” I argue.

“You've never been in love, Emma. You don't understand.” As I digest her words, I feel hurt by what she's saying, but after a moment of clarity and silently repeating her words to myself, I realize she may be right.

“I want what you and Grandpa had,” I tell her. “It's on my list of things to accomplish in my lifetime.”

With what seems like all her effort, she presses her elbows into the bed and pulls herself up into a more upright position. “Emma, listen to me,” she begins, frankly. “What your grandfather and I had was love, sure, but it wasn't the kind of love some search for throughout an entire lifetime. He was a good man—my best friend for many, many years—and he treated me well, but sometimes we’re not always with the right people in life.”

Confusion. That must be what this is. “Grams, maybe you should rest.” I stand up to fluff her pillow.

“Sit back down, Emma,” she demands.

The sternness of her words forces me to do as she says. “I'm trying to tell you something important, and you need to listen.”

“Okay,” I utter.

Out of the corner of my eye, I see Dr. Beck enter the room, but at the same moment, Grams begins again. “It's easy to settle, Emma. It's hard to push through your comfort zone and take a chance when everyone else thinks it’s wrong.” I don't understand what she means.

Dr. Beck's hand finds my shoulder. “How’s she doing?”

I want to tell him she isn't making any sense, but for some reason, I think I'm the one who can't make sense of what she's saying. “She seems okay,” I tell him, quietly.

“So, Amelia, we're going to be giving you a pacemaker tomorrow to prevent any more strokes in the future. How does that sound?”

“No,” Grams responds. “I don't want any of that fancy technology of yours in my body.”

“Grams, please,” I beg.

“No,” she says again, sounding more stubborn than I've ever heard her.

“Grams, I'll do anything for you to reconsider.” I'm becoming desperate, and I don't know what else I can do to convince her about the importance of this surgery. She should have it. There’s no questioning this fact.

Her eyelids close, but flutter, as if she is in deep thought. After a long pause, her eyes reopen and she says, “Fine.”

“Really? You'll go through with it?” I ask her.

“Yes, but under one condition,” she says.

“Anything, what is it?”

“Get rid of Mike and go on a date with this lovely man,” she says, pointing to Dr. Beck.

I don't think my face could become any redder or hotter without bursting into flames. I feel frozen as I stare at Grams with “how could you” eyes, but she simply smiles in return. If this isn’t Jewish guilt, I don't know what is.

“Grams,” I say, without much to follow with, considering Dr. Beck is standing behind me.

“I'm going to give you two a moment,” he says.

“No, I don't think so,” Grams pipes in. “You're very much a part of this, don't you think?”

Dr. Beck shifts his weight from one foot to the other, obviously uncomfortable with the situation Grams is putting him in, as well. “You know, for a woman who just had a stroke, you're quite feisty,” he jests.

“It runs in our blood,” she says, winking at him. “Now, ask my granddaughter out on a date so you can go schedule my surgery.”

“How do you know I'm not married, or dating someone?” he asks Grams while pulling up a rolling stool to her bedside.

“There’s no ring on your finger, and I’ve been watching the way you act when my granddaughter’s around—you steal a glance at her every chance you get. I may be old, but I’m not blind,” she says as her brow arches with delight at the accusation.

“Grams, stop,” I groan.

Dr. Beck drops down onto the stool and leans forward, resting his elbows on his knees. “Uhh, Emma,” he says.

I’m embarrassed to even look over at this man, dreading what he must be thinking. “Yes,” I say, timidly.

“How does dinner tonight sound? I get off my shift at five.”

Grams’s heart monitor begins to speak for me—the continuous beeps of her pulse escalating just enough to make a scene. This is unbelievable. “She'll be here waiting for you,” Grams answers for me.

I smile with incredible embarrassment and agree with a quick nod. “Yes, I’d love to.” I believe this is officially the most awkward moment of my life.

“Are you sure that man who was here yesterday is going to be okay with this?” he asks. “I wouldn't want to step in between the two of you or complicate your relationship.”

“There is no issue,” Grams answers for me. “He cheats on her at least once a week, but she has stuck by him anyway. It’s time for her to turn over a new leaf.”

Dr. Beck places his hand on his chest and noticeably sucks in a lungful of air. “Well then, Emma, I'd be happy to take you out for dinner.”

“Great,” I say softly, shyly, mortified as I feel Grams’s stare burn into the side of my face.

“I have a few rounds to make, but I'll be back in soon to check on you, Amelia.”

“Maybe you should just start calling me Grams,” she says with a chuckle.

As Dr. Beck leaves, I shift around in the seat, directly facing Grams while kindly offering an evil eye. “I can’t believe you are using your heart to control my dating life.”

“Oh, Emma, what better part of me to use? Plus, you'll thank me someday. I'll probably be dead, but you can visit my grave and pay your respects then.”

“You are cruel,” I tell her.

“No, I just know what I'm talking about,” she says with a devious smirk.

“Oh yeah?” I tease.

“Keep reading, Emma. You'll see.”

“Grams, this—” I place my hand down on the diary's cover. “It’s a lot to take in.” Watching her mother die in front of her eyes, then carrying on alone…I can't fathom a world where that took place. I'm not sure I could have kept going; yet all these years later, here she is, making jokes with me.

“It's a lot to try and forget too,” she says.

“Is that why you have never shared this?”

“It's one of the reasons, yes,” she says with confidence while taking the book from my hands.

She flips open the cover and turns to the second page before returning it to my hands, then nestles her head back into the pillow.

Grams has always been good at one thing—distracting me. Just a minute ago, I was arguing with her about refusing the surgery, and now I'm staring at her scripted words written on aged paper, nervous about what I might learn next.

“Well then, come on,” she says, waving her hands at the book. “I want you to get to the good parts.”

The good parts? Of the Holocaust? I stare at her with a blank expression, unsure how to respond, but she doesn't appear to be seeking a response as she keeps her focus zoned in on the open pages.

I can only chalk her irrational behavior up to her medical condition.