I became my grandson’s guardian when he was barely two years old.

That afternoon, there was a knock at the door.
My hands trembled as I walked across the living room.

When I opened it, I forgot how to breathe.

He stood there — taller than me now, broad-shouldered, a young man instead of a boy. But his eyes… his eyes were the same.

He stepped inside and wrapped his arms around me before I could say a word.

And then he broke down.

The kind of crying that comes from years of holding it in.

I clutched him just as tightly, afraid that if I loosened my grip, he might disappear again.

“I thought about you every day,” he whispered.

I assumed he had come for a visit. A weekend, maybe. A few hours.

Then he pulled back slightly and looked at me with a steadiness that made my chest ache.

“You will always be my favorite person in the world,” he said softly. “The one I love and respect more than anyone.”

Before I could respond, he placed something cold and metallic into my palm.

A set of keys.