The Nomadic Life

Chapter 42

He Was The Glue

Dad’s words hit me like a brick.I am dazed, confused, and my heart feels as if it is been ripped from my chest.

“Grandpa’s very ill,” Dad says, his voice trembling. “You need to come home.”

“Home?” The word stings. “You said I could never come home Dad. and besides, I don’t have that kind of money.” I swallowed my words as tears I did not know were hiding suddenly streamed down my cheeks.

Of course I want to go. I need to see Grandpa. He is the reason Dad and I are even a family. Without him, there would be no bridge, no bond between us. Just two stubborn men too proud to admit they need one another.

“I’ll get you here,” Dad says. “You just pack your things. Grandpa needs you… and so do I.”

It is the first time in years I have heard need in his voice.

Dad arranges the flights: San Diego to Chicago, then Chicago to Lexington. He and David will meet me there. During the drive back to Cincinnati we do not speak of the past or the harsh words that once burned the bridge between us. Not now. There is no room for bitterness when someone you love is fading.

The house feels like stepping into a time capsule, warm, familiar, and haunted by ghosts of better days. Harley is here too. Dad reclaimed him after I left. I loved that dog more than words, but Dad used him as leverage once, believing I would not leave if it meant losing Harley. He was wrong. Pride runs deep in our bloodline, and sometimes, it pierces through love, like the early rays of the morning sunrise, leaving shadows behind, haunting reminders of misplaced anger.

I have forgiven Dad, but forgetting is a different story altogether.

For a month, we visit Grandpa daily. His health has declined fast. The man who used to race his “scooty-puff” down the halls of Llanfair, in his most prideful and booming voice, telling anyone who would listen that I was his grandson, is now a whisper. The sparkle in his eyes has dimmed, but his love has not.

The last night I spent with him; he chose only the Italian Wedding Soup

for his dinner. It was his favorite, and the last thing he ever ate. Dad and David left, and about two hours after, Grandpa drifted off to sleep. Peacefully. I sat by his side, holding his hand, whispering the words I needed him to hear:

“Thank you for being the first person who ever loved me unconditionally. For giving me a father who, despite our flaws, loves me too. For teaching us both what family means.”

He did not stir. But I believe he heard me.

At 3 a.m., his chest went still. Nurses rushed in, placing him on a ventilator, but I understood, the Grandpa I knew was gone. The room felt empty, yet peaceful. He may not be conscious, but his love refuses to leave.

Dad came for me at noon. Neither of us spoke on the drive home. At a red light, he reached across the seat and took my hand. No words, no explanations, just that small act of love was his way of asking for forgiveness. I quietly squeezed back in acceptance. When we got home, he tucked me into bed like I was nine years old again.

“Get some rest, son. I love you.”

Exhausted, I slept... hard.

Somewhere in the fog between sleep and waking, I heard dad sobbing in the next room. And I knew.

Grandpa was gone.

David’s quiet voice broke through the sobs. His own mother had passed only days earlier. Somehow, he had the strength to comfort us. Grandpa loved David like a son, and David loved him back with that same quiet devotion. Losing them both in the same week, his mother and his father figure, was a weight I cannot imagine carrying. I will forever admire Papa David’s strength.

While Dad and David were away for his mother’s funeral in North Carolina, I stayed behind to care for the cats and Harley, giving me time to think.

Without Grandpa, the glue that held us together was gone. David no longer had the strength to take the role of referee between Dad and me, and Grandpa is no longer here to remind us that love is bigger than ego.

He was no longer there to say things would be alright.

When times became tough and frustration was the only emotion dad and I shared, grandpa would tussle my hair and say,

“You’ll see. Everything will be okay, I promise.”

And somehow, I always believed him.

He kept that promise.

In time, Dad and I found our way back to one another. But it took years, and a loss so profound that it forced us to look beyond pride and pain.

Grandpa may be gone, but his love still lingers in every conversation Dad and I share. Every memory we share and each quiet moment where forgiveness takes the place of anger, grandpa is there.

He was the glue. And even now, he holds us together still.

But love is a funny thing. It does not just bind, it beckons.

The times comes when I must leave my parents who are still processing their separate grief. I feel helpless, alone in my own selfish grief, wishing it were I instead of grandpa who left.

It is time to go back to California. A lonely plane ride and empty soul.

And now I find myself at another crossroads.

Do I stay here in San Diego, the city that helped shape the man I am? Or do I go back home and try once more to mend the fences Grandpa always believed could be rebuilt?

I do not know yet.

But in my mind, I hear his loving voice, soft and sure:

“You’ll see, I promise.”

Grabbing my bag from the overhead compartment, my future feels so uncertain and a tear falls.

My heart heavy with grief, alone again in a city that no longer feels like home.