He told us about her gradually.
Never dramatically.
Just little pieces.
“She hated winter.”
“She made terrible coffee.”
“She always stole the blanket.”
He said these things with a smile.
But sometimes, when he thought nobody was looking, I saw his face after the smile disappeared.
Loneliness.
That was why we invited him for dinner.
At first, it was once.
Then twice.
Then every Sunday.
Eventually, I stopped asking.
I simply put another plate on the table.
The children adored him.
Walter could repair anything.
A broken toy.
A bicycle chain.
A loose cabinet door.
He even fixed the old wooden swing in our backyard.
One afternoon, my youngest fell off his bicycle.
He scraped his knee and immediately started crying.
Walter came running.
“Let me see.”
The boy threw himself against Walter.
“Grandpa!”
I remember laughing.
Walter froze.
Just for a second.
Then he hugged him.
“I’m not your grandpa, buddy.”
The boy pulled back.
“Yes, you are.”
Walter looked at me.
Something passed between us.
I thought it was affection.
Now I realize it was guilt.
After Walter revealed the truth, I couldn’t stop thinking about every strange little moment.
The way he knew I hated thunderstorms.
The way he had once told my daughter that her eyes reminded him of someone.
