Grandpa lived alone after Grandma passed, and every Sunday I drove two hours just to see him. My cousins used to laugh, saying I was wasting my weekends. I never argued—I just kept going.
Last winter, Grandpa died.
While we were cleaning out his room, one of my cousins found a small diary and joked about it. Something in me told me to open it. The first page read: “Sunday #1, my grandson came to visit today.”
Page after page, he had written about every single Sunday I showed up. Sometimes we just drank coffee. Sometimes I fixed things around the house. Sometimes we barely talked—we just sat together.
At first, I thought he was keeping score.
But next to every entry, he had written the same two shaky words: “Worth it.”
Toward the end, his handwriting got weaker. He wrote that after Grandma died, Sundays were the only days he didn’t feel completely alone. Each visit reminded him that someone still chose him, even when there was nothing to gain.
On the last page, he wrote one final line:
“I left the house to you. Not because you came the most—but because you came when there was nothing to gain.”
Now I understand… those Sundays were never wasted.
