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“This is for you, Grandpa,” she said softly.
My father’s grin froze, his hand hovering above the empty gift box as if he suddenly didn’t know what to do with it. He took the small package reluctantly, tearing open the paper with far less enthusiasm than Ava had. Inside was a framed photo she had made with me—a picture of her at age four, sitting on his lap the last time he visited, both of them smiling. She had decorated the frame with glued-on buttons, little stars, and the words “I love you, Grandpa.”
And then he whispered, barely audible, “I didn’t think… she would remember.”
That was when everything shifted.
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