As grandmother finished reading my story, she set the pile of paper down on the coffee table, sighed, then gazed into space for a bit. I wasn't quite sure what to make of it, and thought of various reactions that she could give...
'I wish you'd stop making things up like this.'
'Why did I have to read that? I'll be depressed for the rest of the week.'
'Wow. I didn't think it could get any worse, but there's that ending!'
...Of course, being my biggest fan, she'd never say anything like that.
She sighed again, and looked at me, smiling, tears in her eyes.
'I remember what it was like when I was your age. I had no skills, and no talents. I had to find a husband quick, or I'd die in the gutter. But you... You don't need anybody to support you. You're going to be a great writer some day, kid.'
I smiled, and watched a single crystal teardrop trickle down grandmother's cheek. We sat in silence for several moments, her reflecting on the story, me silently wondering how something I wrote could cause such a reaction.
I'm pretty sure that it wasn't the story that had upset grandmother. Well, granted she wasn't upset, she was crying with happiness, but you know what I mean. It wasn't the content of the story that had made her feel this way. It was me.
My writing ability had impressed her so much. She was happy for me. She thought- No, she knew that I was going to become a famous writer some day.
Some day. If she thought I had it in me, then I wouldn't stop. I wouldn't stop until my name and my ideas were bound in paper.
'It was beautiful.' Grandmother whispered.
...That's what I'd call it. That was the title of the story.