My relationship with my grandson was always strong, but when he entered his teenage years, it seemed like he no longer had time for me. He was always glued to his phone or hanging out with friends, hardly acknowledging me.
One day, he had his friends over, and I brought them snacks and ruffled his hair like I used to. He turned bright red, slapped my hand away, and hissed, “Grandma, stop! It’s embarrassing.” His friends laughed, and my heart sank. I quietly apologized and left, trying to hide how much it hurt.
A week later, on my birthday, I wasn’t expecting anything special from him. But when I entered the kitchen, there he was, holding a cake he’d baked himself. “You always made my birthdays special. I wanted to do the same,” he said. I wiped away a tear and smiled. Even though he had grown up, deep down, he was still my grandson.
