I thought losing my grandfather would be the hardest part of that week. I had no idea my sister had been hiding something that would shock our entire family.My grandfather raised me and my sister, Karen, after our parents died in a car accident.I was nine, and Karen was 12. We were lucky to have him.Grandpa Harold was the kind of man who made you feel safe with his presence.He owned a beautiful house with a wide porch. Every summer, he hung a tire swing from the oak tree, and in winter, he made hot chocolate for us.

When we were kids, Karen and I used to fight over who got to sit next to him at dinner.Somewhere along the way, that changed.Karen started pulling away when she reached high school.My sister made new friends and stayed out late. Grandpa never argued with her. He simply told her that the door would always be open.I stayed close to him, helped around the house, and listened to his stories.
Sometimes they were the same stories he’d told a hundred times before, but I didn’t mind.Years passed, and Grandpa grew older.Then, in recent years, he got very sick.The doctor said his heart was weak.After that, I began visiting him every day after work.Some days I cooked meals; on others, I cleaned or picked up groceries.