Grandpa would push the chairs against the wall, take my hands, and slowly spin me around the linoleum floor.
“You need to know how to dance,” he’d tell me.
“Why?”
“Because someday you’ll go to prom.”
Then he’d wink.
“And I’ll be your date.”
I always laughed.
I assumed he was joking.
Until three years before my senior prom.
I found him collapsed on the kitchen floor.
The doctors said he’d suffered a massive stroke.
He survived, but the stroke left him unable to walk and weakened the right side of his body.
His speech was also affected.
For the first time in my life, the man who had always been my protector needed someone to protect him.
So I became his caregiver.
I sat beside him during therapy.
I helped him practice speaking.
I celebrated every tiny improvement.
The first time he managed to say my name clearly, I cried.
The first time he moved his hand independently, I called it a victory.
He never complained.
Even from his wheelchair, Grandpa remained the strongest person I knew.
“You’re not broken,” he’d tell me whenever I felt sorry for him.
“You’re just doing things differently.”
