Families of our own.
And through it all, Grandpa remained the center of everything.
Then, at eighty-eight years old, he passed away peacefully in his sleep.
It felt like losing a parent all over again.
A week ago, all six of us returned home for his funeral.
The church was packed.
People came from everywhere.
Former coworkers.
Neighbors.
Teachers.
Friends.
People whose lives he had quietly touched over the years.
After the service ended, most guests left.
I remained beside his casket.
My siblings had stepped outside.
I rested my hand on the polished wood and cried.
“Thank you,” I whispered.
For everything.
For all of us.
That’s when I noticed someone approaching.
An elderly woman.
Maybe seventy.
Maybe older.
She wore a gray coat and a dark headscarf.
I’d never seen her before.
She glanced around to make sure nobody was watching.
Then she pressed a folded note into my hand.
Her voice was barely audible.
