he’s your grandfather.”
I was stunned. My grandfather? I had never known him. My mom rarely spoke about her family, especially her father. I grew up believing he had no interest in us, that he had walked out on my mom when she was a teenager. It was the narrative I accepted without question. But here he was, sitting in my section every Sunday, leaving a $100 tip as if to say everything he couldn’t with words.
My mind raced. Why hadn’t he said anything? Why come here every week just to leave money without so much as a hint of who he was? I needed answers.
The next Sunday, I was ready. I had replayed a dozen conversations in my head, each one more confrontational than the last. But when he arrived, looking even frailer than before, my rehearsed words vanished.
