The next morning, my daughter called and urged me to check the front porch. Her voice trembled, and for a moment I wasn’t sure what to expect. When I opened the door, there was a neatly wrapped package bearing my grandson’s handwriting. A small tag said simply: For Grandma.
My hands shook as I brought it inside. When I lifted the lid, the breath caught in my throat.
Pages Filled With His Voice
He had added new pages, carefully placed between the ones I had created. On each of them, he’d written responses to my notes. His memories intertwined with mine, forming a conversation across time. He tucked in little keepsakes—ticket stubs from movies we saw together, a pressed flower from a park we used to stroll through, a childhood drawing I had forgotten, and a photo of the two of us at a local fair that I didn’t know he’d saved.
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