When I asked why he was being so obsessive, he ran his hand along one of the rails.
“Because my great-granddaughter is going to put her face against this thing at some point, and I refuse to be responsible for her first splinter.”
I laughed.
He didn’t.
He was completely serious.
Grandpa came to almost every prenatal appointment.
Whenever he waited outside, he sat reading fishing magazines he had probably already read twenty times.
When the ultrasound technician told us I was having a girl, he cried.
Then immediately denied crying.
“My eyes are dry.”
“They’re literally wet.”
“Hospital air.”
“Grandpa.”
