Ken was part of a wonderful family. When I entered said family in the early 2000s, Ken’s gram, Anne, reigned over it. Her home in Michigan City, Indiana, was the hub of family gatherings every holiday. The first time I met her was the summer of 2002 at her 80th birthday party. I remember how loving and kind she was to me the moment we met. She hugged me tightly and from that moment on treated me like family.

When I got the call today that she’d passed away last night—at 97—I recalled all of the times I’d seen her and remembered her keen ability to make sure I knew she loved me—even if it involved some good-natured ribbing.

My experience with her was limited, but I saw what a loving grandmother she was—to Ken and his brothers, and to all their cousins. All of us who married into the grandkid family called her Gram. She was fierce and fabulous. Family was her main priority.

When Ken came home for hospice in 2011, I have the great luxury of saying our home was filled with family, laughter and joy. Gram was on her way to visit him on June 1, but he died before she arrived. This incredibly strong woman—who at that point—had lost a husband of her own, a daughter and a great grandson—brought serenity and calm with her even after she realized Ken was gone. I found her sitting in our living room after the funeral home had taken his beleaguered shell away. Silent. She sat there, looking at the hospital bed where he’d lain. I sat on the arm of the sofa next to her and without words put my arm around her. She patted my hand with hers. Knowing. Always knowing, and somehow smarter than all of us. We didn’t speak in that moment. But we understood each other.

But, she’d already made at least one visit over to spend time with her grandson. And she brought with her calm—always calm—love and kindness.

At Ken’s soirée, Gram was the last to stand up and speak. It was after the prepared presentations were over and we invited anyone who wanted to talk to stand up and be heard. At 89 at the time, she stood up, turned to me across the aisle and told me how much she loved me for loving Ken; how wonderful our relationship was. She called us “the perfect couple.” I’ll never forget her conviction as she spoke as long as I live.

The next time I saw Gram it was on her 90th birthday the following year. The family gathered in Michigan City to celebrate this amazing woman.

Having lost so many loved ones, I feel like Gram understood me better than most people. (Maybe we all felt that way about her.) Going to visit her at the house in Michigan City hurt in those first years after Ken died, but she was always the same solid, funny, sweet Gram.

So many times over the years when Ken and I left, she would hug him and not-as-subtly-as-she’d-like force some cash from her fist into his. The first time I witnessed it, on the way home, I asked him “what did she do? Slip you a note to rescue her?”

But the first time I visited her on my own the Christmas after Ken died, I experienced that same warm embrace, and felt the same twenty dollar bill being slid into my hand.

Because she loved her family. And I was lucky enough to be considered one of them.