Even now, at seventeen, that day remains etched in my mind as vividly as if it happened just yesterday. I had just returned from school, my backpack still weighing on my shoulders, when my mother called me and my two sisters into the living room. It was unusual—she worked nights and was rarely home during the day. She sat with her hands tightly clasped, took a slow, steady breath, and as soon as she exhaled, I knew something was wrong. Her voice was calm—too calm—when she told us that Grandpa Walter had passed away. Eighty-two years old. Peacefully. Without suffering. The words sank into me one by one, each creating ripples that seemed impossible to quiet.
Grandpa was more than just a relative—he was my anchor. Even in his later years, he remained active, attending classic car shows and tending to his beloved cherry-red 1957 Chevrolet Bel Air. My childhood was filled with the scent of motor oil, the soft hum of an engine, and the shine of polished chrome. Every Saturday, Mom would drop me at his house, where we would clean the Chevy, check the oil, or fix whatever “urgent” little problem he claimed it had. I made mistakes—once spilling oil all over the driveway—but he only laughed. And without fail, there was candy in the ashtray, his playful way of reminding me to “stick to candy” and never pick up smoking. My sisters never joined us; they didn’t like getting their hands dirty and never connected with Grandpa the way I did. For me, he wasn’t just a grandfather—he was my best friend.
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