Two months ago, I was at work when my phone rang. It was Mom. “Elise, it’s Grandpa,” she said, her voice trembling.
“He’s in the hospital. He—”
“Hospital?” I cut in, totally blindsided. “What happened?”
“He had a heart attack,” Mom said, barely holding it together.
“We need to go see him.”
“Is he okay?” My stomach dropped. “I don’t know, Elise…” Her voice broke. “I’m coming now,” I said, shutting down my work computer in a rush after telling my boss about Grandpa’s condition.
Grandpa Toren is my rock, my best friend, the person I love most in the world—maybe even more than Mom, but that’s our little secret. That call turned my world upside down. My stomach knotted as I bolted out of the office.
The drive home is a blur—I don’t even recall how I got there. I picked up Mom, and we raced to the hospital, a 45-minute trip that felt like an eternity. Mom cried the whole way, while my heart pounded like it might burst.
At the hospital, a nurse told us Grandpa was in surgery. After what seemed like forever, the doctor came out. “The surgery went well, but he needs rest and care,” he said.
“A heart-healthy diet—low salt, low fat. Gentle exercise. And no stress.”
“Got it, doc,” I said.
“When can we see him?”
“Is he really okay?” Mom asked, her voice desperate. “He’s resting comfortably,” the doctor assured us. “The nurses will let you know when you can visit.”
A few days later, Grandpa was sent home, but there was a catch.
He lives in another town, too far for us to check on daily. So, we hired a full-time nurse who also agreed to cook for him. She was a blessing.
For two months, Grandpa stayed in his apartment, focusing on recovery. Last week, I realized I hadn’t seen him in too long. Over breakfast, I turned to Mom.
“I’m visiting Grandpa this weekend. Wanna come?”
Her face brightened. “That’s a great idea, sweetie,” she said, smiling.
“He’ll love seeing us.”
“Awesome!” I said, digging into my eggs. On Saturday, I woke early, grabbed a bouquet of Grandpa’s favorite yellow sunflowers, and drove with Mom to his place. I couldn’t wait to see his grin, expecting a day of his funny stories, unaware of what awaited us.
Pulling into his apartment complex, I spotted Grandpa’s old car, covered in dust from sitting unused since he got sick. As we got closer, I saw something that made me furious. Someone had written on the rear windshield with their finger, the message fresh: “DIRTY PIG!
CLEAN YOUR CAR OR LEAVE! SHAME! SHAME!”
I was livid.
Who would be so cruel to an old man too sick to get out of bed, let alone wash his car? “Oh my gosh,” Mom gasped. “Who would do this?”
“Some heartless jerk picking on a sick old man,” I said, fists clenched, my face burning with anger.
Mom touched my arm. “Calm down, Elise. Let’s not upset Grandpa.”
I took a deep breath, trying to cool off.
“You’re right. Let’s go see him.”
We hurried to Grandpa’s apartment. When he opened the door, his face lit up with a huge smile.
The story doesn’t end here — it continues on the next page.
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