My Son Said Something That Only My Grandfather Could Have Known

My son looked at me and said, “Mommy, when you were a little girl and I was a man, we danced in the garden behind the white tree.” My blood ran cold. The only person I ever danced with there was my grandfather. He had a beautiful backyard with a giant white oak, where he’d turn on his old radio, take my hand, and spin me barefoot in the grass. I was six or seven. It was our quiet ritual, something magical I never told anyone.

My grandfather passed away before my son was born. I had never shared those memories—not with family, not with friends. So I knelt and asked softly, “What else do you remember?” My son smiled. “You wore a yellow dress. I spun you around and you laughed. You said, ‘Don’t let me go.’”

My knees weakened. I remembered that exact day—the yellow sundress, the moment I stumbled, and my grandfather catching me as I begged him not to let go. He had whispered back, “I never will.”

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