Grandpa didn’t want a big goodbye. “Just a sandwich, a folding chair, and a quiet lake,” he said before his scheduled surgery. So we honored that—gathering at his favorite lake, eating greasy diner food, and sitting in peaceful silence.
He looked like himself—strong, calm, reflective. We fished, laughed, and shared stories. Then, as the sun set, he turned to me and said, “I just want you to remember this moment. This is what matters.” That hit hard. Not just because of what he said, but because we all felt the weight of what might come next.
