It had been almost a year. He never said much about it, but I could tell—he still set out two coffee mugs in the morning. Still muttered “night, love” before bed. Still kept her robe hanging by the door like she’d be back any minute.
So I asked him if he’d go out with me. Just brunch. Just us. No reason. He hesitated, then said, “Sure… but only if we can get waffles. Your grandma would’ve liked that.”
He came out in his tan jacket, the one he always wore to church. Hair combed, shoes shined.
But what I didn’t expect was the way he acted once we were out there. Grandpa, usually quiet and reserved, had this strange spark in his eye when we sat down at the diner. He straightened up, adjusted his jacket like he was getting ready for something important, and glanced around as if the world outside of his home had suddenly come alive again.
I watched him take a deep breath as the waitress brought over the menus, his eyes scanning over the items like he hadn’t seen a menu in years.
“Waffles, right?” I asked, just to break the silence.
His smile was a little softer than usual, but it reached his eyes. “Right. Waffles and coffee. Just like your grandma liked.”
I thought that was all this was going to be—just a nice morning out, a simple meal to take his mind off of the past year. But something about him shifted as we sat there. It was like the restaurant, the bustling voices around us, the clinking of silverware, had somehow stirred something in him. Something that had been dormant for months, maybe even years.