My parents left me at Grandpa’s house when I was five, with everything I owned stuffed int0 three black garbage bags. Twenty-five years later, they finally returned—not for me, but the morning after Grandpa’s funeral

For twenty-five years.

Grandpa was a diesel mechanic with little money and grease under his nails, yet he never made me feel unwanted.

My parents did.

Every Sunday at six, Grandpa called Mom.

Most weeks, she never answered.

Once, when I was twelve, I asked, “Does she ever pick up?”

“Five times in twenty-two years.”

I stopped asking.

Then Grandpa got cancer.

Near the end, he called Mom one final time.