The weeks after that hug felt strange.
Grandpa smelled different, not just of the usual motor oil, but of something sharper underneath, like fresh fabric and machine grease I didn’t recognize.
Some nights, I’d notice loose threads clinging to his sleeves, a stray bit of blue caught on his cuff. He’d pick them off without a word and drop them in the trash before he shuffled off to bed.
I couldn’t figure out what he was up to.
Grandpa smelled different.
***
One night, I asked him straight out.
I caught him at the door with a glass of water in my hand before he could disappear down the hall.
Grandpa shifted his jacket over his arm as if he were hiding something underneath.
“Sweetheart, go on to bed. I’ll be up in a bit.”
“Grandpa, you’re gonna wear yourself out. Please just stop, whatever you’re doing.”
I asked him straight out.
He just smiled that tired smile of his.
“Go on, Tina. I’ve got this. The boss is letting me stay late at the shop to get some extra work done. Nothing to worry about.”
I convinced myself he was maybe cleaning offices or doing something in a warehouse.
The guilt started eating me alive.
I repeatedly told him a thrift-store dress was fine, and I meant it.
But he continued working himself to exhaustion for me.
I convinced myself he was maybe cleaning offices.
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