My grandfather raised me. When my parents died in a car crash on a wet October night, I was 12 years old.
I remember sitting on the hospital bench with a social worker who kept saying words like “placement” and “temporary housing,” and then I heard Grandpa’s voice cut through the hallway.
“She’s coming home with me.”
That was it.
Just his steady hand on my shoulder and the smell of hay and peppermint gum.
My parents died.
My grandpa and the farm became my whole world after that.
My new home wasn’t fancy. The paint peeled off the barn in long strips, and the roof leaked every spring, but it was ours.
Grandpa taught me how to mend a fence and how to read the sky before a storm rolled in.
When I had nightmares, he would sit on the edge of my bed and say, “You’re safe here, Katie. Nothing touches you on this land.”
My new home wasn’t fancy.
Years passed. I got married young, divorced even younger, and moved back in with Grandpa, with my three kids in tow.
I took them with me when my ex decided responsibility wasn’t for him.
Grandpa never once complained. He just nodded and said, “More boots by the door means more life in the house.”
When his health started declining about 10 years ago, it happened slowly at first.
Leave a Comment