Two weeks after my grandfather’s funeral, my phone rang with a stranger’s voice saying words that made my knees buckle: “Your grandfather wasn’t who you think he was.” I had no idea the man who raised me had been hiding a secret big enough to change my entire life.
I was six years old when I lost my parents.
The days that followed were dark, filled with adults whispering about the drunk driver who killed them and debating what to do with me.
The words “foster care” floated around the house. That idea terrified me. I thought I was going to be sent away forever.
But Grandpa saved me.
Sixty-five years old, tired, already dealing with a bad back and knees, he strode into the living room where all the adults were whispering about my fate and slammed his hand down on the coffee table.
“She’s coming with me. End of story.”
Grandpa became my whole world from that minute on.
He gave me his big bedroom and took the smaller one for himself. He learned how to braid my hair from YouTube, packed my lunch every day, and attended every school play and parent-teacher meeting.
He was my hero and my inspiration.
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