My grandmother was known in our family for one thing above all else: thrift. She reused aluminum foil, saved buttons in old cookie tins, clipped coupons with almost religious devotion, and kept jars of loose change lined up on her kitchen windowsill like tiny trophies of discipline. Growing up, we teased her gently about it. “Grandma, you don’t need to wash that plastic bag,” I’d say, laughing, as she carefully hung it over the faucet to dry. She would smile and reply, “Waste is just money you didn’t respect.” To us, she seemed almost obsessed with saving. She never bought new clothes unless the old ones were completely worn through.

She walked instead of taking the bus whenever she could. She turned down invitations to restaurants, insisting she preferred eating at home. Even during holidays, her gifts were modest—usually handmade scarves, baked goods, or practical items bought on sale. We loved her deeply, but we all assumed her world revolved around stretching every dollar as far as it could go. When she passed away quietly at ninety-two, surrounded by family, we mourned her with heavy hearts but also with a certain sense of familiarity: she had lived simply, and we believed she had left simply.