The Childhood Visits to My Grandfather I Never Questioned — Until Adulthood Answered Them

When I was seven, visiting my grandfather was part of my week, like a small ceremony. We’d walk from the corner shop to his house, my hand in his, as if I were the one guiding him home.

Inside, everything happened the same way. He held my hands, studied my face, then poured us two glasses of grape juice. He didn’t talk much, but his attention made the room feel safe.

To me, it was just our habit.

As I grew older, life sped up. School, friends, and later adult responsibilities replaced those visits. When I did see him, he seemed quieter, more distant. I told myself it was age.

After he died, regret settled in—I should have come more.

Years later, my mother told me what I hadn’t known. Back then, Grandpa had already been losing his memory. Simple things slipped away.

But he always remembered I was coming.

The way he held my hands and searched my face was his attempt to anchor me, to keep me familiar. The grape juice was part of his medication; sharing it made it gentle instead of frightening.

What I thought was routine was devotion.

He wasn’t just greeting me. He was memorizing me, saving what he could before time carried it off.

Now I understand: love often hides inside ordinary moments, waiting years for us to see it.