For years, his mother had given him allowances and spending money. Instead of using it all, he quietly saved as much as he could.
Every birthday gift. Every bit of money he received.
He had been planning.
Planning for the day he turned eighteen—the day he could finally come back to me.
“I rented a small house,” he said, his voice warm. “It’s nicer than this place. And it has an elevator.”
I blinked at him in disbelief.
“You always hated climbing stairs,” he added softly. “I remember.”
That was the moment my legs gave out, and I sat down in the nearest chair, overwhelmed.
All those years, I thought I had lost him forever.
But he had never forgotten me.
Now we have one precious year together before he leaves for college.
One year to cook pancakes again on Sunday mornings.
One year to laugh, talk late into the night, and make up for the time we lost.
And every single day, when I look at the young man he has become—kind, thoughtful, and full of gratitude—I feel a pride deeper than words can describe.
Because time and distance may have separated us.
But nothing in this world could ever break the bond between a grandmother and the grandson she raised with all her heart.
