The Childhood Visits to My Grandfather I Only Understood Years Later

When I was seven, visiting my grandfather was part of my weekly routine. I would proudly walk beside him from the corner store to his small house at the end of the street, feeling important because he trusted me to guide him home. Once inside, he followed the same gentle ritual every time—holding my hands, studying my face as if committing it to memory, then smiling as he poured us each a glass of grape juice. To me, it was simply our special tradition. He spoke very little, yet his quiet attention made me feel safe and deeply loved.