When I was seven, visiting my grandfather felt like a small adventure. Every week, I’d walk beside him from the corner store to his little house, convinced I was the one guiding him home.

Once inside, the ritual was always the same: he’d hold my hands, study my face like he was memorizing it, smile, and pour us both a glass of grape juice. I thought it was just our special tradition—something that made those afternoons feel safe and familiar.

As I got older, I visited less. Life filled up, and my grandfather grew quieter and slower, which I assumed was just age. When he passed away, I held onto the memories, mixed with a regret I couldn’t quite name.

Years later, my mother told me the truth: he’d been struggling with memory loss even back then. He might forget other things, but he never forgot me. Holding my hands, looking at my face, and sharing grape juice wasn’t just a habit—it was his way of staying anchored to love, turning medicine and routine into connection. And only now do I understand those afternoons for what they really were: a quiet, repeated kind of goodbye.