When I was seven, visiting my grandfather felt like stepping into a tiny, secret adventure. Each week, I’d march proudly beside him from the corner store to his small house at the end of the street, convinced I was guiding him home.
Inside, the ritual never changed: he’d take my hands, study my face like he was memorizing it, smile, and pour us both a glass of grape juice.
Back then, I thought it was just our special tradition—a comforting rhythm that made those afternoons feel safe, familiar, and quietly important.
As the years passed, those visits slipped from my weekly calendar. School, friends, and chores took over, and my grandfather grew quieter, slower.
I assumed it was just aging. When he passed away, I carried a bittersweet mix of regret and warm memories—precious, but puzzling.
It wasn’t until years later, during a conversation with my mother, that everything clicked. She told me that my grandfather had been struggling with memory loss even when I visited him weekly.
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