My grandfather became my whole world after I lost my parents when I was just a year old. Seventeen years later, I pushed his wheelchair to the entrance of my prom. A girl who had never been kind to me had a lot to say about it. When Grandpa spoke, everyone held their breath.
I was just over a year old when the flames engulfed our house. I don't remember it, of course.
Everything I know comes from the stories my grandfather and the neighbors told me afterward: it all started with a power outage in the middle of the night. There was no warning. My parents didn't make it out alive.
I was just over a year old when the flames swept through our house.
The neighbors were on the lawn in their pajamas, watching as the windows glowed with an orange light, and someone was shouting that the baby was still inside.
My grandfather, who was already 67 years old, went back inside. He came out through the smoke, coughing so hard he couldn't stand up, with me wrapped in a blanket pressed against his chest.
The paramedics later told him he should have stayed in the hospital for two days because of the smoke he had inhaled. Instead, he stayed one night, was discharged the next morning, and drove me home.
That night, Grandpa Tim became my whole world.
Someone was shouting that the baby was still inside.
Sometimes people ask me what it was like growing up with a grandfather instead of parents, and I never know what to say. Because for me, it was simply life.
My grandfather packed me lunch with a handwritten note under the sandwich. He did it every day from kindergarten through eighth grade, until I told him I was embarrassed.
She learned to braid hair on her own by watching YouTube videos and practiced on the back of the sofa until she could do two French braids without losing count. She attended all the school plays and applauded louder than anyone else.
