*Diary Entry, 12th June*
Grace had been practically begging her husband, Edward, to visit her great-grandmother, Eleanor Whitmore. The old woman lived in the countryside, nearing her ninety-eighth year, and every visit could well be the last. But Edward refused to even listen.
“Grace, I’m not going. All that rambling about nothing bores me to tears,” he sighed, hoping the argument would end swiftly.
“Please! Last time, she promised to share the family secret—the exact words that saved her marriage! But only if we come together. Do you understand? Both of us!”
“Grace, you don’t honestly believe in some magic phrase, do you? We’re grown adults.”
“I do! Because she and great-grandad were married for over sixty years. And she swears it was because of those words. I want that with you—forever. Till the very end…”
After a long pause, Edward relented with a grimace.
“Fine. But we make it quick. An hour or two, then back home.”
Eleanor lay neatly tucked in bed when they arrived, her daughter—Aunt Margaret, now well into her seventies—busying herself nearby. The old woman managed a faint smile and whispered, “You came after all…”
Grace rushed to embrace her while Edward gave a polite nod. “Good afternoon.”
He settled into a chair by the wall, resigned to boredom, but Grace perched on the edge of the bed and pressed on.
“Grandma, you look wonderful! Edward and I have been meaning to visit. Remember—you promised to tell us about the special words?”
Eleanor frowned. “What words?”
“The ones you mentioned! You said, ‘Come together, and I’ll tell you.’ So we’d have a long, happy marriage. You said it yourself!”
The old woman paused, sighed, then turned to Edward. “Do you even care to know?”
Edward shrugged. “Honestly, I don’t believe in fairy tales. My parents always said love’s enough. The rest is nonsense.”
“Then you’re wrong, lad,” Eleanor said softly. “It’s not about magic. It’s about words that help. Simple words, but if spoken at the right moment, they can save a life. The vicar told them to me and William when we married—in that tiny chapel near the moors, the only one left standing after the war. He said: ‘Every time you stand at the edge, remember—just one step to parting.’”
Edward frowned. “One step…?”
“Aye. Because everything can be ruined by one wrong word. One reckless act. A moment’s thoughtlessness, and it’s over—straight into the abyss. Whenever William and I argued, we’d say those words aloud, together. And the fight died right there. We were too afraid to take that step. Too afraid to lose each other.”
“And love?” Edward asked uncertainly.
“Love’s no cure-all. It lasts only if you guard it. Only if two people remember each other. Only if they think beyond themselves. That’s when it saves you.”
Grace and Edward walked home in silence, lost in their own thoughts. At the doorstep, Edward suddenly pulled Grace close and murmured, “She’s right, your grandma. One step—and everything’s gone.”
“Do you see now?” Grace asked cautiously.
“I do. Because I remembered how my parents divorced. Father took one wrong step. Then Mother did. And it all fell apart.”
He held her tighter. “We must remember those words. And say them. Together.”
She smiled, sensing for the first time in ages—he understood. A true family doesn’t begin with feelings. It begins with choice. Every day, every second—*not* to take that one step.
*Some wisdom, it seems, is passed down not through blood, but through the weight of years and the quiet courage of those who’ve weathered storms before us.*