I was seven years old the first time I noticed the ritual.
Every Sunday without exception, my grandfather, Edmund, would wake up early, eat breakfast quietly, and put on the same brown wool coat that hung by the front door like it had been waiting for him all week.
He never explained where he was going.
He never invited anyone along. He just kissed my grandmother on the cheek, ruffled my hair if I happened to be there, and left.
My grandmother never stopped him. She never asked where he went, or if she knew, she never said. There was a particular silence between them on Sunday mornings that even as a child I understood not to disturb.
Once, when I was about nine, I caught him at the door before he left and tugged his sleeve.
“Grandpa, who are you waiting for?” I asked.