When I handed it to him on moving day, he barely flipped it open. He glanced at the cover, mumbled a quick “Thanks, Grandma,” then went right back to stuffing things into boxes. I forced a smile so he wouldn’t see how deeply that small reaction stung. That night, I sat alone in my quiet house and wondered if the album meant anything to him at all… or if it had just been another reminder that the world he was stepping into no longer had much space for me.
The next morning, my daughter called. Her voice sounded tight with emotion.
“Mom,” she said, “go check your front porch.”
My hands shook as I peeled away the tape and lifted the lid, my heart beating faster than it had in years. Inside was the same photo album I had given him—but it wasn’t the same anymore.
He had added new pages.
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