Maybe it wasn't.
Maybe the cabinets were old.
Maybe there were too many things on the refrigerator.
Maybe the table had scratches.
But you knew where everything was.
You knew which cupboard had the glasses.
You knew which drawer had the spoons.
You knew you didn't have to ask before opening the refrigerator.
Maybe there was always something I kept because I knew you liked it.
Maybe you sat at that table after school.
Maybe you sat there during holidays while everyone talked over one another.
Maybe someday, when you are much older, you will remember the sound of dishes being put away while you told me about something that had happened.
And perhaps what you will really remember isn't the kitchen at all.
It is that you belonged there.
Maybe You’ll Remember That You Didn’t Have to Impress Me
The world asks a lot from people.
As you grow older, it will ask even more.
At work, someone will want results.
Online, everyone will seem happier, richer, more successful, more attractive, and more certain than they really are.
People may ask what you do for a living.
How much you have achieved.
Whether you are married.
Whether you have children.
Whether you bought the house.
Whether you got the promotion.
Whether you are “doing well.”
There may be days when it feels as though your value is being measured everywhere you go.
I hope there was one place where it wasn't.
With me.
I hope you never believed you had to arrive with an accomplishment in your hands to deserve my attention.
I wanted to hear about your victories.
But I also wanted to hear about your ordinary Tuesday.
And if you failed at something, I still wanted you at my table.
Maybe You’ll Remember That You Could Be Quiet
We often think closeness means conversation.
But some of the people we feel safest with are the people around whom we don't always have to talk.
Maybe you came over once and didn't feel like explaining what was wrong.
Perhaps I asked.
Perhaps you said, “Nothing.”
I hope I knew when to stop asking.
Maybe we watched television.
Maybe I made something to eat.
Maybe you sat at the table looking at your phone while I did something nearby.
From the outside, nothing meaningful happened.
But maybe something did.
Maybe for an hour, nobody required anything from you.
Sometimes that is what safety feels like.
Not somebody fixing your life.
Just somebody allowing you to put it down for a while.
I Hope I Never Made Your Difficult Days About Me
This is something grandparents have to learn too.
When someone we love is hurting, we want to fix it.
Sometimes we offer advice before we have finished listening.
Sometimes we say, “You should…”
Sometimes we remind you how we handled something similar forty years ago.
Sometimes our desire to help becomes another thing you have to manage.
I hope I learned to do something simpler.