“My father’s name is Walter Harrison,” she explained. “He lost his sight six years ago. He served in the military. He’s stubborn, proud, and lonelier than he admits.”
She looked tired when she added, “My daughter stopped visiting years ago after a family disagreement. Dad still asks about her.”
I understood the request, even if it made my stomach twist.
“What do I need to do?” I asked.
“Visit him every Sunday. Talk to him. Eat lunch with him. Let him feel like someone still comes for him.”
“And pretend to be his granddaughter?”
Linda lowered her eyes.
“Yes.”
I accepted.
The first Sunday, I was terrified.
Walter lived in a small white house surrounded by flowers and oak trees. When I knocked, he opened the door almost immediately.
Though he could not see me, he smiled.
“There you are.”
My throat tightened.
“Hi, Grandpa.”
The word felt like theft.
But Walter reached for my hand and said warmly, “Come inside.”
That first visit lasted four hours.
Walter told stories about his military service, repairing trucks, fishing trips, and his wife, Margaret, whom he had loved for more than fifty years.
Whenever he mentioned her, his voice softened.
“Margaret could make anybody laugh,” he said. “Even me.”
And for a while, I forgot I was acting.
