The apartment was always quiet in the mornings, and it almost always smelled like instant coffee and toast. I was 17, almost done with high school, and that small kitchen was still the safest place I knew.
My grandpa, Walter, hummed something old while he packed my lunch into a brown paper bag.
“Peanut butter again, kiddo,” he said, folding the top of the bag neatly. “Don’t tell anyone I’m a fancy chef.”
“Your secret’s safe, Grandpa.”
My grandpa, Walter, hummed.
My grandpa raised me by himself, pretty much, since I was a baby. My dad died before I could walk, and my mom ran off with some guy a few months later, refusing to do the parenting thing alone.
Grandpa Walter never once acted as if I were a burden.