Ask my daughter who her favorite person is, and she’ll say “Grandpa” without hesitation—not me, not her dad. The moment she sees him, she runs into his arms like she’s been waiting forever. She mimics everything he does—from how he dips his chips to how he folds his arms when thinking. And he adores every second of it. He lets her wear his glasses, holds her hand like she’s his whole world, and tells the same silly jokes just to hear her laugh.
Watching them together fills my heart. Their bond is pure, joyful, and deeply touching.
One weekend after staying at my parents’ house, I watched her hug my dad goodbye—quietly, cheek to cheek. My dad’s always been strong and stoic, but in that moment, I saw just how much he feels this connection. On the drive home, gratitude washed over me. The same man who shaped my childhood was now shaping hers. But beneath the gratitude was fear—what if we lost him before she truly understood how special he is?
A few weeks later, my mom called. Her voice shook as she said, “Your dad’s not feeling well. He has a doctor’s appointment tomorrow, but… we should be ready for anything.” I rushed over. He looked calm, sitting in his usual chair—but something had changed. His spark was fading. And for the first time, I realized he was carrying a weight none of us had seen.