My mother had one rule whenever we visited my grandfather.
“Lily, don’t sit on Grandpa’s lap.”
She said it so often that, as a child, I thought it was simply one of those strange adult rules that nobody bothered explaining.
Don’t touch the thermostat.
Don’t play with Grandma’s porcelain angels.
Don’t eat the cookies before dinner.
And apparently…
Don’t sit on Grandpa’s lap.
I was nine years old, which meant I was old enough to know when adults were hiding something and young enough to believe I was probably the reason.
So naturally, the more my mother told me not to do something, the more curious I became.
And one Sunday afternoon, I finally ignored her.
I walked straight across my grandfather’s living room, climbed onto his lap, wrapped my arms around his neck, and smiled.
Grandpa George laughed.
My mother nearly dropped the plate she was carrying.
