“Getting old, Michael?” He’d chuckle when I asked, worried. “Just let me rest a bit.”
I nodded, but unease noted at me.
He was the only person I had, and the thought of losing him made it hard to breathe.
One morning, I woke up late, struck by the unusual silence.
No clattering from him in the kitchen.
I rushed downstairs, calling out, “Grandpa.”
Silence.
My heart pounded as I opened his bedroom door.
He lay on the bed, eyes closed, face pale.
I rushed to him, shaking him, my voice breaking.
“Grandpa. Grandpa, wake up.”
But he didn’t stir.
I touched his hand.
It was cold.
I stood there frozen, as if the world had collapsed.
I don’t remember how I called 911, only that when the ambulance arrived, they confirmed what I couldn’t accept.
My grandfather had passed away from a stroke in the night.
The hours that followed blurred like a nightmare.
I sat in the living room, clutching the silver ring he’d given me, listening to people come and go.
Neighbors visited, each with a story about him, how he’d fixed their tractors for free or lent them money in hard times.
I listened but couldn’t speak.
My mind was empty, repeating one question.
“Why, Grandpa? Why did you leave me?”
The funeral was held at the town’s small church where he’d taken me every Sunday.
The pews were packed.
Farmers, engineers, even a few suited strangers from the city I’d never met.
I stood by the casket, looking at his face, serene as if asleep.
I wanted to scream, to pull him up, but I just stood there gripping the ring, feeling it was the only thing keeping me from breaking apart.
As the pastor read the prayers, I recalled our evenings by the fireplace when he’d talk about engineering, patience, and living with purpose.
“You are my legacy,” he’d said.
Now he was gone, and I didn’t know how to go on.
All I knew was that no matter how much it hurt, I had to be strong for him.
That day at the funeral, as I stood in the churchyard thanking mourers, a sleek black car pulled up.
Phân cảnh 7: Return of the parents
The door opened, and I saw them, my parents.
They stepped out, dressed impeccably, but their eyes chilled me.
My mother approached, hugging me, whispering, “Michael, I’m so sorry. I’ve missed you.”
My father stood behind, nodding, his face stern.
I stood rigid, not returning the embrace.
It felt like an invisible wall stood between us.
I wanted to believe them, to think they’d returned out of regret.
But when they pulled me to a secluded corner, my mother’s tone shifted, syrupy and artificial.