Going Home…

Seven years. That’s how long it’s been since I last went back to my hometown. The last time I was there was for my father’s funeral. It was a hard time — and honestly, it’s been too long.

My kids needed time with their grandma, so I booked the tickets. My youngest was only three when his grandpa died, so naturally, he doesn’t remember him. I think they would’ve enjoyed each other — I can picture them laughing together.

So when my youngest started calling my mom’s new husband “Grandpa,” it caught me off guard. At first, it was a little jarring. Over the next couple of days, I thought about it a lot. I felt sad that he never knew my dad, never knew where that part of him came from. I couldn’t see them sharing jokes, laughing together, or stories together.

But on the other hand, I get it. He’s looking for that connection — someone to be a grandfather figure on that side of the family. For him, it just felt right.

As we were leaving, I watched him give his new adopted grandpa a hug, step back, and look up into his eyes with a big, beaming smile. And it hit me: family, whether by blood or heart, is what matters.

When I look at the photos of my kids, their cousins, my mom, and her husband, it’s clear. Family is what it’s all about.