When I think back to the day my grandpa passed away, I can still feel the weight of that moment. I was only 17 at the time, but the memory remains vivid in my mind. My mom sat us down, her usually busy schedule paused for this serious conversation. It was then that she broke the news to us, and I could sense that something wasn’t right.

My grandpa, a remarkable man who was 82 years old, had always been an active individual with a deep love for vintage cars. He didn’t have a collection like his friends, but he cherished one special vehicle. Every weekend, my mom would drop me off at my grandpa’s place, where we would spend time together, working on his beloved car. I later discovered that those weekends had a hidden purpose.

Those days spent with my grandpa created some of my most cherished memories. Accidents happened, like when I knocked over the oil can or when my grandpa scratched the red paint on his Chevy Bel Air, but those mishaps were part of the fun. What I loved most was that my grandpa always filled the ashtray with candy. He never smoked, instead encouraging me to indulge my sweet tooth.

While I relished my time with my grandpa, my sisters preferred the company of our cousins. We weren’t close, but I didn’t mind because I treasured every moment spent with my grandpa.

The day my mom informed us of my grandpa’s passing was devastating. He wasn’t just my grandpa; he was my best friend, even during my teenage years. Overwhelmed with grief, I hurried to my room and spent the rest of the evening there. The next morning, as I walked down to the kitchen in my pajamas, a sense of isolation surrounded me. It seemed like everyone was giving me the cold shoulder.