My grandfather carried an old photograph in his wallet for over thirty years, a phone number scribbled on the back. He never called, never explained who it belonged to.
After his funeral, I picked up his phone and dialed the number. A man answered. My heart froze.
The photo showed a little girl in a red coat—innocent, familiar. Grandpa never told me if it was my mother. He only said, “Some things you hold onto… even if you don’t know how to fix them.”
Years later, standing in Grandpa’s kitchen after his passing, I called the number again. The man—my father—answered. He had been waiting, watching from afar, while Grandpa raised me alone.
Visiting him