After Grandma died, I drove two hours every Sunday to visit Grandpa, even when my cousins said I was wasting my weekends.
After Grandpa passed, I found his diary documenting every visit, with two words beside each entry: “Worth it.”
He wrote that Sundays were the loneliest days, and my visits reminded him that someone still chose to show up.
He left me his house because I came when there was nothing to gain, teaching me that love is measured by presence, not reward.
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