In the weeks before his move, I gathered photos from every corner of the house. Birthdays with lopsided cakes, holidays crowded with cousins, summers on the porch, school plays, toothless grins, messy hair, and sleepy mornings. I arranged them in a sturdy photo album and added handwritten notes beneath each image—little reminders of the moments that shaped him, the ones that shaped me too.
When moving day came, I placed the album in his hands with a hopeful smile. He opened it only briefly, nodded, and muttered a quick “Thanks, Grandma” before returning to his boxes. I tried to hide the sting of that small dismissal. After everyone left, the quiet of the house felt heavier than usual, and I wondered if the album had meant anything at all—or if it had been a simple gesture swallowed up in the rush of growing up.
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