One afternoon, a granddaughter was sitting beside her grandmother, looking through an old photo album.
She noticed a photograph of Grandma as a young woman.
She looked glamorous.
Elegant dress.
Perfect hair.
A smile that suggested she knew exactly how charming she was.
The granddaughter laughed.
“Grandma, how many boyfriends did you have when you were young?”
Grandma smiled proudly.
“Oh, darling, in my time, relationships were pure, respectful, and meaningful.”
The granddaughter nodded.
“Wow…”
Then she asked:
“So… just one?”
Grandma paused.
“Well…”
The granddaughter leaned closer.
“How many?”
Grandma started counting on her fingers.
“One for dancing.”
The granddaughter blinked.
“Okay…”
“One for poetry.”
Another finger.
“One for motorcycle rides.”
Another.
“One who played guitar.”
Another.
“And one rich boy who always took me to fancy restaurants.”
The granddaughter’s eyes widened.
“GRANDMA!”
Grandma laughed.
“What?”
“You just listed five!”
Grandma shrugged.
“We didn’t call them ‘boyfriends’ back then.”
The granddaughter became even more curious.
“Then what did you call them?”
Grandma leaned closer.
She lowered her voice dramatically.
Then whispered:
“Options.”
The granddaughter stared at her.
Grandma smiled.
“Darling, your grandfather wasn’t the lucky one.”
“He was simply the one who survived the auditions.”
The granddaughter burst out laughing.
Grandma picked up her tea.
“Now stop asking questions.”
“Why?”
“Because I haven’t even told you about the one who had a convertible.”
