When my grandson told me he was moving out, my heart filled with pride—and a little ache. I wanted to give him something special for his new beginning, something meaningful he could keep in his first home. But living on a fixed income meant grand gifts were out of reach.
So instead, I gave him what I could: a photo album made with love.
I spent hours choosing every picture… his first day of school, birthday wishes over glowing candles, sticky ice-cream smiles, quiet afternoons on the porch. On each page, I wrote a note—a little memory, a message just for him, a reminder of our bond.
When I handed it to him, my heart fluttered with hope.
But he barely glanced at it before setting it aside and returning to his packing. I forced a smile so he wouldn’t see the sting of disappointment. All night, doubt pressed on my chest. Maybe it hadn’t meant anything to him. Maybe it was just an old woman’s sentimental gesture.
The next morning, my phone rang. It was my daughter, her voice trembling.
“Mom… please go check your front porch.”
Confused, I opened the door.
There, waiting in the morning light, was a neatly wrapped package. On top lay a small handwritten note—my name written carefully in my grandson’s familiar scrawl.
And suddenly, I knew the story wasn’t over yet.
