He looked up, surprised but smiling. “I want to be better,” he said simply. “Maybe… better grandfather someday.”
That was it.
No guilt. No blame. No mention of how long I’d been gone.
My throat closed so suddenly I couldn’t speak. I stood there pretending to look for the document, because if I sat down, I knew I’d start crying. He went back to his lesson like nothing had happened, repeating words slowly, patiently.
I left with the paper—and a weight in my chest I couldn’t shake. Now I visit twice a month. We drink tea.
We practice words together. His English is getting better. Mine gets softer around him.
We never talk about the lost time. But every visit, he writes a little more in that notebook—and I stay a little longer than before.
