Short Daily Update: Lessons from the Greatest Woman You’ll Never Meet

Week 4 – Day 26 of A Story AI Couldn’t Make Up

The name of the woman who wrote in her diary for 89 years is Evie Riski. She made 33,000 entries.

(I can’t stop thinking about what data crunching her diaries could reveal—patterns, word clouds per decade, what she remembered versus what she actually wrote. So many questions. But I digress.)

This story stayed with me for a simple yet powerful reason: it reminded me of my grandmother.

My grandmother had the same cursive handwriting—at times hesitant on paper, though she herself never hesitated. Today, I’ve been thinking about her. And about how we lose the people we love so much that we can’t quite compute that they aren’t eternal.

Death is an absurd thing. My grandmother was one of the most interesting, caring, and honestly, best human beings to walk this earth. And you won’t have the chance to meet her. That makes me so incredibly sad. The whole world should know about her.

So today, I’ll write her here. And now, you’ll get to know her— even if just a little.

But first, here’s someone else more fierce grandmother: Evie Riski, the greatest diarist, and her cursive. So that we know her. So that we remember her name, her smile, who she is:

Where My Family Begins

Now, back to my dearest grandmother.

Her story is one of self-determination, resilience, freedom and laughter—always a lot of laughter. It starts with the very first act of identity: her name.

Her parents couldn’t agree on what to name her. Her mother wanted a religious name, symbolizing the color blue and the sky. Her father wanted something more uncommon, a tribute to someone he cared about.

Then, as family legend has it, my great-grandfather came home and said:
"When I got to the registration office, I couldn’t remember the name you told me. So I gave her the one I was thinking about."

And just like that, my grandmother’s name was not the one her mother had intended. She used to say she would have preferred her mother’s choice, but she always told the story with a laugh. She had a deep appreciation for her father, who adored his children.

"He would take us dancing and wait for us for hours."

Maybe that’s where my family starts. Or at least, where the memories feel fresh enough to be told — my great-grandparents.

I say "starts" because, for me, I’m privileged to associate the word family with unconditional love. And every time I heard stories about them, that’s what I felt.

This was my grandmother:
Fiercely smart. Always adapting to the ever-changing world—not for the sake of change, but to understand her grandchildren better. To come closer to us.

Her Third Chapter

I remember her most in what I call the third chapter of her life—the one after my grandfather passed away.

He was the love of her life. She once told me that the years by his side were the happiest of her life. But she kept going after he was gone. She was too resilient not to.

She built a new home.

She learned how to take care of her finances.
She learned how to drive—and drove almost until the end, taking friends and family to gatherings.

Except on election days. On those days, she would only give rides to people voting for the same party as her. I have a video of her laughing as she accelerates, while I tell her she drives like a racer.

The Table

I remember arriving at my grandmother’s house late at night, 2AM or 3AM, after a long drive with my father and siblings. My father always called ahead, telling her not to prepare dinner.

She always ignored this instruction.

We would arrive to meat baked in the oven, potatoes, rice, soup, cakes — three or four different kinds to accommodate everyone’s dietary preferences. My favorite cheese, my father’s favorite meat, the fizzy water for my little brother, the Coke for the other, the juice without bubbles for another…

She set the table with something special for each one of us. And we had no choice but to sit all together, eat, and talk until sunrise.

It was around that table, in those late-night conversations, that I learned so many stories—about my grandmother’s life, my father’s childhood, the happenings of the small village she lived in.

It is such a small place, but you have no idea… so many things happened there. Every single week, so many news.

(After a life between two different continents and some cities, my grandmother decided to went back to live closer to her siblings, in her 70s, in that small but eventful place.)

One weekend, I was already at my grandmother’s house when my family was set to arrive. That’s when I witnessed the preparation of that table.

I had no idea.

The phone calls she made a week in advance to reserve the best ingredients.
The errands to pick them up from different towns.
The hours in the kitchen.

She made it look effortless. But it wasn’t. It was an act of mastery, of love in motion.

I miss her food.

Sometimes, when I cook or plate a dish, I remember what she would say. And if I think I’ve done a good job, I whisper to her:"I hope I made you proud with this one."

The Bond

During COVID, I lived with her for one month. I cherish those memories so much.

We picked flowers.
Her dog ran away, and I couldn’t make him come back.
She got me a bicycle I never used.
She showed me the land and its history. I recorded videos because I knew I’d forget.

I worked from her living room. She never interrupted me. But when I finally emerged, lunch was always ready, impeccably warm, always my favorite dishes.

But my favorite memory?

Every afternoon, her sister would stop by. She sat outside. My grandmother stood at the window.

And they talked. For hours. Every single day.

I took a picture once and sent it to my sister. I wrote:
"I hope this is us when we grow older."

What Matters

My grandmother lived a great life. She made brave choices.

My older brother says that if she had been a millennial, she would have been a CEO.

And while I deeply admire her stories of resilience, those aren’t the things I remember the most. I didn’t write them here.

It’s the small moments. The ones that felt so little at the time.

Now, almost three years later, those mundane moments are all that I miss.

I could tell so many more stories. And I’m grateful I have them. Grateful that, in my family, we still share them. We laugh. We cry a little. We feel lucky that Ilda made those tables — and the people around them.

I know you never met her. But I hope now, you know her a little.

And I hope, as I remember my incredible grandmother, you think of someone in your life too. If you can, call them.
And if you can’t, like I can’t — I hope you know that we’re lucky to have known them.