Enduring Love: A Reflection on Relationships, Grief, and the Power of Connection

Helen Moores
May 10
4 min read

I didn’t grow up believing in soulmates. Most of the relationships I witnessed were chaotic and void of tenderness.

But my grandparents’ love story?

That was different.

Their love story always felt like something from a classic novel, the kind of romance that lingers long after you’ve turned the last page.

Their love was the foundation of my belief in lasting connection. Even now, it continues to inspire me. It helps me keep believing that love never truly dies.

They met in the north of England, before the war—when life was tough and the future uncertain. They were pulled apart by history, by duty, by time. But when the war ended, they found each other again.

What made their relationship so special wasn’t just the circumstances under which they fell in love, but how they chose each other, day after day, for over fifty years. They weren’t flashy or performative in their love; it was humble, grounded in the everyday. Their bond was the quiet kind - woven through resilience, humour, and a shared purpose.

Some of my earliest memories are wrapped in the warmth of their presence.

My grandfather had this mischievous twinkle in his eye, one that made even the most mundane moments feel magical. He’d pull me onto his knee, pretend to steal my nose, and laugh that hearty laugh that made everything feel right in the world. His affection was playful yet protective, the kind of love that made you feel like you were safe - no matter what.

My grandmother, on the other hand, radiated a quiet grace. She was small, elegant, and delicate, with an inner strength that balanced her sweetness. When she looked at my grandfather, there was a depth in her gaze that spoke of something far beyond words - a love that was steady and unshakeable.

Together, they showed me that true love isn’t about grand gestures or fleeting moments of passion, but about showing up every day, in the quiet, mundane moments.

Even after decades together, they still held hands wherever they went - fingers intertwined, like young sweethearts. I remember watching them walk down the country lanes together, my grandmother’s arm looped through his, and thinking, this is what love looks like.

Effortless. Enduring. Real.

Of course, their love wasn’t without challenges.

Life was hard - especially in the years after the war. Money was tight. Losses were painful. But no matter what, they chose each other. Their connection was never dependent on circumstances. It was something deeper than that - unspoken, but stronger than anything words could convey.

When my grandmother passed away, a part of my grandfather died with her.

His sparkle dimmed.

But even in his grief, there was no bitterness—just the quiet weight of love that had nowhere else to go. He spoke to her as if she were still in the room. Some might have found it strange. I found it beautiful.

And it helps me feel a little less unhinged, thirty years on, when I find myself doing the same thing.

Love like that doesn’t just disappear.

It hangs in the air, like the faint scent of her Chanel No. 5—still there, long after she’s gone.

In his final days, I sat by his bedside, holding his hand. He was frail, his voice soft, but his love remained. He looked past me, as if seeing something - or someone - just beyond the veil.

"I'm coming, my love," he whispered, speaking to her in a place I couldn’t follow.

I knew, deep in my heart, she was there.

Waiting.

When he passed, there was this profound sense of peace. A quiet knowing that their love wasn’t over. It had just moved to a different place, beyond what I could see or touch. That they were together again.

In a world where relationships can feel fleeting, it’s easy to get cynical. But my grandparents’ love reminds me that real love is possible. It endures, forgives, and holds on - even when life gets hard.

Even when one of you is missing.

Because here’s the thing no one tells you: when you love someone that deeply, their absence becomes a second skin. It doesn't fade with time so much as fuse with you.

Grief doesn’t disappear—it just finds new ways to sit with you in the room. You pour the tea for one, but your body remembers how it felt to pass the second cup. You catch yourself mid-sentence, answering a question no one asked. You roll over in the morning and reach out an arm to flop over a now empty space.

I used to think grief was something to get through, like a tunnel with a light at the end.

But it's not.

It's a landscape.

And some days, it's tragically beautiful, and other days it’s unforgivingly barren. But it's all part of the same terrain.

You just learn how to live there.

What my grandparents gave me—beyond the memory of their love—was a kind of map.

A reminder that real love isn't loud. It doesn't scream its presence. It endures in silence, in routine, in reaching out through the veil.

I didn’t grow up believing in soulmates. Most of the relationships I witnessed were chaotic and void of tenderness.

But my grandparents’ love story?

That was different.

Their love story always felt like something from a classic novel, the kind of romance that lingers long after you’ve turned the last page.

Their love was the foundation of my belief in lasting connection. Even now, it continues to inspire me. It helps me keep believing that love never truly dies.

They met in the north of England, before the war—when life was tough and the future uncertain. They were pulled apart by history, by duty, by time. But when the war ended, they found each other again.

Some of my earliest memories are wrapped in the warmth of their presence.

My grandmother, on the other hand, radiated a quiet grace. She was small, elegant, and delicate, with an inner strength that balanced her sweetness. When she looked at my grandfather, there was a depth in her gaze that spoke of something far beyond words - a love that was steady and unshakeable.

Together, they showed me that true love isn’t about grand gestures or fleeting moments of passion, but about showing up every day, in the quiet, mundane moments.

Even after decades together, they still held hands wherever they went - fingers intertwined, like young sweethearts. I remember watching them walk down the country lanes together, my grandmother’s arm looped through his, and thinking, this is what love looks like.

Effortless. Enduring. Real.

Of course, their love wasn’t without challenges.

Life was hard - especially in the years after the war. Money was tight. Losses were painful. But no matter what, they chose each other. Their connection was never dependent on circumstances. It was something deeper than that - unspoken, but stronger than anything words could convey.

When my grandmother passed away, a part of my grandfather died with her.

His sparkle dimmed.

But even in his grief, there was no bitterness—just the quiet weight of love that had nowhere else to go. He spoke to her as if she were still in the room. Some might have found it strange. I found it beautiful.

And it helps me feel a little less unhinged, thirty years on, when I find myself doing the same thing.

Love like that doesn’t just disappear.

It hangs in the air, like the faint scent of her Chanel No. 5—still there, long after she’s gone.

In his final days, I sat by his bedside, holding his hand. He was frail, his voice soft, but his love remained. He looked past me, as if seeing something - or someone - just beyond the veil.

"I'm coming, my love," he whispered, speaking to her in a place I couldn’t follow.

I knew, deep in my heart, she was there.

Waiting.

When he passed, there was this profound sense of peace. A quiet knowing that their love wasn’t over. It had just moved to a different place, beyond what I could see or touch. That they were together again.

In a world where relationships can feel fleeting, it’s easy to get cynical. But my grandparents’ love reminds me that real love is possible. It endures, forgives, and holds on - even when life gets hard.

Even when one of you is missing.

Because here’s the thing no one tells you: when you love someone that deeply, their absence becomes a second skin. It doesn't fade with time so much as fuse with you.

I used to think grief was something to get through, like a tunnel with a light at the end.

But it's not.

It's a landscape.

And some days, it's tragically beautiful, and other days it’s unforgivingly barren. But it's all part of the same terrain.

You just learn how to live there.

What my grandparents gave me—beyond the memory of their love—was a kind of map.

A reminder that real love isn't loud. It doesn't scream its presence. It endures in silence, in routine, in reaching out through the veil.

They taught me that love doesn't end, it just shifts form.

Now, when I find myself speaking into the quiet, I don’t feel crazy.

I feel connected.

I feel human.

Because maybe love that deep was never meant to be confined to one lifetime.