My grandma has always given me a plastic sheep on my birthday ever since I was 7. Because I believed she had some memory issues, I always acted surprised whenever I opened the box. Recently, my brother pulled me aside, his face full of worry.
Him: “You really don’t get it, do you?”
Me: “Get what?”
Then he pointed to the underside of the sheep and said, “Next time, try to be more alert.”
I flipped it over. Etched into the base, in Grandma’s shaky handwriting, were tiny numbers: 7, 8, 9… all the way to 27. Each sheep had a year. She hadn’t forgotten—she’d been counting. Every gift was a milestone, a quiet promise she’d be here.
My throat closed. “She remembers everything,” I whispered.
My brother’s eyes glistened. “She started when the doctor said she might not see you grow up. She wanted proof she did.”
That night, I lined the sheep on my shelf like soldiers. Grandma sat in her chair, frail but smiling. I knelt, took her hand.
“I get it now,” I said. “Thank you for every year.”
She squeezed back. “Just one left,” she murmured, nodding at the empty spot for 28.
I bought the final sheep myself—white, perfect—and hid it until her next breath. When the time came, I’d place it in her hands. She’d know she made it
