our time together was always filled with joy. He even filled the ashtray with candy for me, telling me to stick to sweets instead of smoking. Each weekend, I eagerly climbed into the car, opened the ashtray to grab some candy, and then helped my grandpa with whatever needed to be done. My sisters never showed interest in joining us, preferring to spend time with our cousins.
But I didn’t mind—I cherished every moment with Grandpa.When my mother broke the news of his passing, I was devastated. He was my closest friend, even during my teenage years. I ran to my room and spent the evening alone, grappling with the loss. The next morning, still in my pajamas, I went downstairs, only to be met with cold stares from my family.
Confused and feeling isolated, I apologized to my sisters, thinking they were upset because I had left abruptly. But they simply ignored me, and I was left feeling even more alone. Seeking an explanation, I turned to my mom. She told me that my sisters were likely jealous because Grandpa had left me the Chevy. I couldn’t believe it—Grandpa’s beloved car was mine? The idea was hard to grasp, especially since I wasn’t even old enough to drive properly at the time.
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