My Parents Returned With a Moving Truck After Grandpa’s Funeral, But He Had Left One Final Instruction

One drawing showed Grandpa and me holding hands beneath a large yellow sun.

At the bottom, in my five-year-old handwriting, were the words: MY HOME.

I sat on the floor with the picture in my lap.

For years I’d told myself that being abandoned didn’t matter because Grandpa had made up for it.

But there were things I’d carried into adulthood without realizing how heavy they were.

The need to be useful.

The fear of asking too much.

The expectation that love could be withdrawn without warning.