I was just 17 when my grandpa passed away. Memories of that day are still fresh in my mind. I remember my mom gathering me and my sisters, her serious expression hinting at the news she was about to break. It was a usual day after school, but something felt different.
My grandpa was an incredible man. At 82 years old, he was always active. He had a deep love for vintage cars and would often take me to car shows, sparking my passion for anything with an engine. He had one special vehicle, a beloved car that he cherished. Every weekend, my mom would drop me off at his place so we could work on it together. Those weekends were magical, filled with laughter, and bonding over a shared love for cars.
Even the accidents that happened, like when I accidentally knocked over the oil can or scratched the red paint on his Chevy Bel Air, were part of the fun. One of the things I loved most about helping my grandpa was that he always filled the ashtray with candy. He never smoked and encouraged me to satisfy my sweet tooth instead.
While I cherished my time with my grandpa, my sisters preferred spending time with our two cousins. That was fine by me. Our weekends together created some of my fondest memories.
When my mom sat us down to break the news of my grandpa’s passing, my heart shattered. He wasn’t just my grandpa; he was my best friend. Devastated, I retreated to my room for the rest of the day. The next morning, I felt a sense of isolation as I walked down to the kitchen in my pajamas. It seemed like everyone was giving me the cold shoulder.