“Foster care.”
I didn’t cry. I didn’t scream.
I was too scared for that.
I was convinced it meant I would vanish—sent somewhere unfamiliar, forgotten by everyone who had ever loved me.
He was sixty-five, already worn from years of hard work, back stiff, knees aching. He surveyed the room of arguing adults, walked straight to the center of the living room, and slammed his hand on the table.
“She’s coming with me,” he declared.
“That’s final.”
From that moment, he became my whole world.
He gave me the larger bedroom and moved himself into the smaller one without hesitation. He taught himself to braid my hair by watching videos online late at night. He packed my lunch every morning, attended every school play, and squeezed into tiny chairs during parent-teacher meetings as if he belonged there.
To me, he wasn’t just my grandfather.
He was my hero.
When I was ten, I told him, full of certainty,
“When I grow up, I want to help kids the way you helped me.”
He hugged me so tightly I could barely breathe.
“You can be anything you want,” he said.
