“…that man is your grandfather.”
The words hit me like a storm, halting everything around me. My grandfather? Memories of him were faint, buried under scattered stories wrapped in family drama I couldn’t fully grasp. I knew he and my mom had parted ways years ago, but the reasons were hazy, lost in silence.
I sat in my cramped apartment, the air suddenly thick and heavy. Peanut, my cat, meowed, sensing my unease. My mind spun with questions that had no immediate answers. Why didn’t he ever say anything? And why now?
I dialed my mom without hesitation, hands trembling. She answered on the first ring. “Mom, what’s going on? I don’t understand.”
Her voice carried regret and sorrow. “Jess, I’m sorry. I should have told you more about him. We had our differences. He was proud, stubborn, complicated—but he had a good heart. The feud… it was foolish, and I let it come between us.”
I listened, hearing the years of missed chances and unspoken pain. “But the tips… why now? Why not say anything?”
She hesitated. “I don’t know. Maybe it was his way of reaching out, trying to help quietly. He always cared about family, even if it didn’t show. Seeing you every week… that means something.”
I thought of those Sundays—his gentle nods, kind eyes—and felt a mix of warmth and sorrow. He had been quietly watching over me all this time.
“Jess,” my mom continued softly, “you need to talk to him. He’s not well. If there’s a chance… maybe it’s time to try to repair things.”
