It started with a simple gesture: my grandson, mischievous and sweet, handed me a walkie-talkie one evening. “For bedtime chats,” he whispered, eyes twinkling. I chuckled, thinking it was just another playful idea from a child who hated goodbyes. Every night, after lights out, he’d press the button and say, “Goodnight, Grandma,” and I’d reply, “Sleep tight, my love.” It became our ritual—our invisible thread across the quiet house.
But one night, I heard something I wasn’t meant to.
I had forgotten to turn off the walkie-talkie. As I lay in bed, I heard my grandson talking—not to me, but to someone else. His voice was hushed, trembling. “I don’t want Grandma to know,” he said. “She’s already sad enough.” My heart froze.
He spoke of things I hadn’t known—how he’d overheard the adults talking about my health, how he’d seen me cry when I thought no one was watching. He said he gave me the walkie-talkie so I wouldn’t feel alone. “I just want her to know I’m always here,” he said. “Even if she forgets things or gets sick.”
I pressed the button, but I couldn’t speak. My throat was tight with tears.
That night shattered me—not because of what he said, but because of the depth of his love. In his small way, he was trying to protect me. To comfort me. To hold me together when I didn’t even know I was falling apart.
The walkie-talkie still sits by my bed. We still talk every night. But now, I listen more closely—not just to his words, but to the heart behind them. And I’ve started sharing more with him too. Because love, I’ve learned, isn’t just about protecting someone from pain—it’s about walking through it together.
