On the back of my grandmother’s photo was a faded old photo of a young woman smiling brightly in an elegant dress, standing in front of an old house.

The face looked strangely like mine. Like it was another version of me from the past.

I took a picture of the tombstone and went to Grandpa. He looked like he was expecting me.

When I showed him the photo, he smiled nostalgically:
“That’s her… your grandmother, as I knew her. A real movie heroine.”

— But why did she hide that photo?

He sighed and said,
“She always took great care of her appearance. Getting older hurt her deeply. She said, ‘Why should we put pictures of us old on our gravestones? Why not leave one where we were beautiful?'”

And then she added: “But if I put up a young photo, they’ll think I’m a vain old lady…”

Tears welled up in my eyes, but I smiled.

Everything became clear: she wanted me – when the grief was less intense – to see the woman full of radiance, joy and life that she was.