When I walked into my grandfather’s birthday party, I expected a house full of family. Instead, I found something that made me question whether the people closest to us really see the sacrifices we make until it’s too late.
The kindest man I had ever known lived in a small blue house at the end of Maple Street, and for most of my life, I thought everyone in our family knew it too.
Grandpa Walter was the kind of man who answered the phone on the first ring, no matter the hour.
He kept a notebook by his recliner with everyone’s birthdays, anniversaries, and the dates of every grandchild’s school recital.
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