I was only 17 years old when my grandpa passed away, but I can still vividly remember the day. It was a usual day after school when my mom gathered me and my sisters together.
It was unusual for her to have time to sit down and talk with us, considering her night shifts. I knew something was wrong when I saw the serious look on her face before she broke the news.
My grandpa, who was 82 years old at the time, was a remarkable man. He had always been active and had a deep love for vintage cars. He would often take me to car shows, instilling in me a passion for anything with an engine. Although he couldn’t afford to own a collection of vintage cars like his friends, he had one special vehicle that he cherished. Every weekend, my mom would drop me off at my grandpa’s place so we could spend time together and work on his beloved car. I always thought my mom did it to strengthen our bond, but little did I know, she had ulterior motives.
Those weekends with my grandpa created some of my fondest memories. Even when accidents happened, like when I accidentally knocked over the oil can or when my grandpa scratched the red paint on his Chevy Bel Air, it was all part of the fun. I especially loved helping my grandpa because he always filled the ashtray with candy. He never smoked and encouraged me to satisfy my sweet tooth instead.
My sisters, on the other hand, preferred spending time with our two cousins instead of helping grandpa. We were never close, but I didn’t mind. I cherished every moment I spent with my grandpa.
When my mom sat us down to break the news of my grandpa’s passing, my heart broke. He was not just my grandpa; he was my best friend, even throughout my teenage years. I rushed up to my room, spending the rest of the evening there. The next morning, when I walked down to the kitchen still in my pajamas, I felt a sense of isolation. Everyone seemed to be giving me the cold shoulder.
Thinking they were upset with me for leaving abruptly, I apologized to my sisters. However, they snorted and walked away, leaving me feeling even more dejected. I sought out my mom to find out what was wrong.
“Honey, your sisters are just a little jealous. If you hadn’t stormed off, you would have heard that your granddad left you his Chevy,” my mom explained.
I couldn’t believe it. Grandpa’s Chevy? He would never allow anyone else to have it. It was his pride and joy. I couldn’t even drive properly at that point.
“Don’t get too excited. You’re behaving like a vulture. I’ve decided that you won’t inherit it,” my mom stated, adding to my shock.
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