It wasn’t something I was ashamed of. I had had some dates, but I had never met anyone I trusted enough to take that step.
Interestingly, my father seemed more concerned about my behavior in the presence of a particular man.
My grandfather.
Grandpa George practically helped me raise myself.
When I was little, I followed him everywhere. Even as an adult, he hugged him, leaned on his shoulder while we watched television and sometimes joking, sitting on his lap for a photo, as I had since I was a child.
Dad didn’t like it.
“Emily, enough is enough,” he said.
I’d laugh.
“Dad, he’s Grandpa.”
“I know perfectly well who he is. Be careful with him.”
That phrase has always bothered me.
Be careful with him?
Years, he was kind, calm and probably the least intimidating
person I knew.
Each time
that asked Dad what he meant, he refused to explain it.
“He’s getting older. That’s it.”
But sometimes his expression suggested that it wasn’t just that.
Grandpa noticed, too.
One Thanksgiving, Dad saw me sitting on the arm of Grandpa’s chair with his legs partially on his lap.
“Emily. Move.”
Grandpa looked away immediately.
I got up angry.
Later, I confronted Dad in the kitchen.
“What’s wrong with you?”
His response left me stunned.
“Someday you will understand why I keep telling you.”
After that, I started wondering if there would be any family secret that no one would want to tell me.
Three months later, Grandpa came to our house
Grandfather George was seventy-nine
was upstairs.
Grandpa looked unusually serious.
“Emily,” he said quietly, “can I ask you something?”
“Safe.”
He looked down the stairs earlier
to approach.
Will you sleep by my side tonight?
I stared at it.
I honestly thought I had misunderstood.
“What?”
“Tonight,” he repeated. In my house.
I felt a knot in my stomach.
