As the years passed, life changed in quieter ways. My grandmother passed away suddenly from a heart attack when I was in my late teens, and the loss hit my grandfather harder than he ever let on. He became more deliberate after that, more attentive to his health and more careful with his time.
He started going for regular checkups, blood tests, and screenings. Vitamins and supplements appeared beside his breakfast plate, neatly arranged like soldiers.
Still, I noticed things. He tired more easily. His movements slowed. And, perhaps most surprising of all, the fiery glares he used to cast over the fence toward Harold’s property gradually disappeared.
In his final months, instead of standing rigidly in the yard as if guarding his territory, my grandfather spent long evenings sitting on the porch swing. He would watch the sky as it shifted from blue to amber to deep violet, his expression distant and thoughtful. Sometimes I sat beside him, the creak of the swing filling the comfortable silence between us.
Then, one morning, he didn’t wake up.
His passing was peaceful, the doctors said. That knowledge comforted us, even as grief hollowed out our days. We held a beautiful funeral, filled with stories, laughter, and tears. People spoke of his generosity, his reliability, and his fierce loyalty to those he loved.
A few months later, we gathered in the office of the family attorney to hear the reading of his will.
My mother sat beside me, clutching a tissue in her hands. My father, Richard, kept one arm draped protectively around her shoulders. The room smelled faintly of old paper and coffee, and the air felt heavier than it should have.
The lawyer read methodically through the document.
My mother inherited my grandfather’s antique furniture, pieces she had grown up with and cherished. My father received his extensive collection of ties and bow ties, each one chosen with care over decades. I was left a substantial sum of money intended to support my education.
