I see my Dziadziu, my father’s father, standing at the highboy in their bedroom where he’s motioned me to follow him in from the rest of the folks in the kitchen. He slides open a small drawer at the top, takes something out, slips it closed. Something’s curled in one of his hands, while with the other he puts a finger to his lips. Shhh…no tell your father, he says, and takes my hand and puts a shiny quarter there.
My Dad, just home from his three to eleven p.m. shift, comes in to kiss his three little girls goodnight. I wake for a moment, murmur good night and find a sour ball in my mouth. Shh…, don’t tell your mother, he says.
My Dad, gone three years today. And I did tell her, years and years later, and found that she’d known all along.
The Lost Children: A Charity Anthology
What a lovely memory of your grandfather and your dad.