My grandfather became my whole world after I lost my parents when I was only a year old. Seventeen years later, I pushed his wheelchair through the doors of my senior prom. A girl who had never been nice to me had a lot to say about it. When Grandpa spoke, the whole room held its breath.
I was just over a year old when flames ravaged our house. I don’t remember it, of course.
All I know comes from the stories my grandfather and the neighbors told me later: it all started with a power outage in the middle of the night. There was no warning. My parents didn’t survive.
I was just over a year old when the flames ravaged our house.
The neighbors were on the lawn in their pajamas, watching the windows light up orange, and someone was shouting that the baby was still inside.
My grandfather, who was already 67 years old, went back inside. He came out through the smoke, coughing so hard he couldn’t stand up, with me wrapped in a blanket against his chest.
The paramedics later told him he should have stayed in the hospital for two days because of the smoke he had inhaled. Instead, he stayed one night, signed his discharge the next morning, and drove me home.
That night, Grandpa Tim became my whole world.
Someone was shouting that the baby was still inside.
People sometimes ask me what it was like growing up with a grandfather instead of parents, and I never know how to answer that question. Because for me, it was just life.
Grandfather used to pack my lunches with a handwritten note tucked under the sandwich. He did this every day from kindergarten to fourth grade, until I told him it was embarrassing.
He taught himself how to braid his hair using YouTube and practiced on the back of the sofa until he could do two French braids without losing his place. He showed up to every school play and applauded louder than everyone else.
He taught himself how to do braids using YouTube.
He wasn’t just my grandfather. He was my father, my mother, and everything that family meant to me.
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