Puzzled, I shuffled to the door. There, sitting neatly by the welcome mat, was a carefully wrapped package with my grandson’s handwriting on it. A small note was taped to the top: For Grandma.
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.
On each extra page, he had written thoughtful messages responding to my notes—his memories layered over mine. He’d slipped in ticket stubs, little doodles, and mementos from his childhood: a crumpled old drawing, a pressed flower from the park, even a photo I didn’t know he’d kept of the two of us at the fair. On the very last page, in big, careful handwriting, he explained why he’d seemed so indifferent the day before:Continue reading…
