I’m Marin. I’m 27 years old, and a few weeks ago, I buried the only family I had — my grandfather, Harold.
He raised me from the age of two. My parents died in a car accident, and I grew up knowing them only through a few photographs he kept in a drawer.
The one that stands out most to me showed my mother holding me on her hip while my father stood beside her.
I buried the only family I had
— my grandfather, Harold.
Those pictures were all I had, and Grandpa made sure they never felt like ghosts hanging over my childhood.
He took me in and brought me up in his small house on the outskirts of town, a little place with peeling paint, a lemon tree in the backyard, and a porch swing that creaked louder than the cicadas in the summer.
But it was home. With him, I never once felt abandoned.
With Grandpa, I never
once felt abandoned.
Every morning, he made me breakfast, and he always insisted on packing my lunch with a handwritten note inside.
He held my tiny hand as he walked me to preschool, stopping every few steps so I could point out rocks and flowers like they were treasures. He read to me every night.
But it wasn’t easy; I see that now. Grandpa just made sure I never saw him struggling.
Grandpa made sure I never
saw him struggling.
He worked different jobs until he was 70 — handyman, grocery stocker, bus driver — whatever it took to keep the lights on and my backpack full.
I didn’t understand the sacrifices back then. I just knew that whenever I needed something, he somehow made it appear.
He gave me love, safety, and a life filled with warmth. Grandpa filled every corner of my world.
