My grandmother kept a jar of buttons she would never explain. When I was little, I thought they were prizes. She told me they belonged to people who had finished something difficult. “What did they finish?” “Life, mostly.” I thought she was joking. Years later, after she died, I found a note taped beneath the jar. Run for me. Nothing else. So I did. I entered my first marathon at thirty-six, despite having never run more than five kilometres without complaining. The training was miserable. My knees hurt. My lungs protested. My friends suggested hobbies involving chairs. But every time I wanted to quit, I imagined my grandmother watching from the kitchen window. On race day, I wore her old blue cardigan tied around my waist. At kilometre thirty, I found a button in my pocket. I had never put it there. It was brass, scratched down the middle. I stopped running. A volunteer asked if I was all right. I nodded. Then I continued. At kilometre thirty-five, another button. At thirty-nine, another. Each was different. Each somehow familiar. I realised they matched the coats of people in my grandmother's photographs. People who had survived wars, illnesses, divorces, bankruptcies, prison sentences. People who had simply kept going. The final button appeared as I crossed the finish line. It was hers. I held it in my palm and cried so hard the race photographer asked whether I needed medical attention. I told him no. I had finally understood. The buttons weren't prizes. They were reminders. Nobody wins at surviving. You simply reach the next morning. That evening, I placed her button back in the jar. Then I made tea. The marathon ended, as these things do, with a quiet cup of tea.