I Gifted My Grandpa a Pillow with My Late Grandma’s Photo — When I Came Home for Thanksgiving, I Found It in the Trash

My grandfather was so happy that he started crying when I handed him a pillow that was printed with my late grandmother’s happy face.

It was soiled with tomato sauce and coffee grounds when I discovered it buried in the trash six months later. However, that wasn’t the worst thing I found that day.

Something broke inside Grandpa Bill after Grandma Rose died, and it never fully healed. Every night when I went to see him at his tiny cottage, I would see him cradle her framed photo to his chest as he fell asleep. It always made my heart hurt to see it.

I took action as a result. I got a soft, cream-colored cushion printed with her favorite picture—the one where she’s laughing at a joke Dad told at a BBQ, her eyes crinkling with sheer ecstasy. The kind that you could really grasp.

Within an hour of me mailing it to Grandpa, he gave me a call.

“Sharon? Oh, my dear. Tears filled his voice. “No one has ever done me something as lovely as this. It feels like Rose is back in my arms when I hold this.

I shed a tear or two alongside him. “I wanted you to feel close to her, Grandpa.”

“This is what I’m going to sleep with every night. For the rest of my life, every night.”

At eighty-four, he is still as smart as ever, but his physical capabilities have diminished. Dad and my stepmother, Cynthia, requested that dad move in with them after he suffered a serious fall in his kitchen last spring. They claimed to have a guest room. It was logical.

It was six months later. Grandpa always sounded good when I called him on Sundays. Perhaps exhausted. Okay, though.

Then my company finished a big project two weeks earlier than expected, and all of a sudden I had Thanksgiving week off. I drove to Dad’s a week early in an attempt to surprise everyone. I entered through the side door as I still had my old high school house key.

There was silence in the house.

“Grandpa?”

No response.

Then I heard it. A little sound of voices. Perhaps a television. coming from the lower level.

out of the basement.

My footsteps were silent on the hardwood as I followed the sound. I pulled open the slightly open basement door and was struck in the face by a gust of damp, cold air.

And there he was.

My grandfather Bill, perched on a slender metal-framed cot between piles of boxes marked “CHRISTMAS” and “OLD LINENS” and a rusted water heater. On top of an overturned milk crate was a little portable television. A single, thin blanket. No bedside table. Nothing.

“Grandpa?” I gave a gasp. “Why are you down here?”

Startled, his cheeks reddened with guilt as he looked up. Clicking off, he fumbled with the TV control. “Oh! Sharon, sweetheart. “What a beautiful surprise!”

“Respond to me. You’re sleeping in the basement, but why?”

“It’s really not so bad down here.” He refused to look into my eyes. It’s actually pretty quiet. In order to store her sewing supplies, your stepmother wanted the upstairs bedroom for her hobby room. Anyway, I don’t require a lot of room.”

In my veins, my blood felt like icy water. Upon surveying his pitiful little setup, I became acutely aware of what was lacking.

“Where’s your pillow?” My voice broke. “The one I sent you.”

He slumped his shoulders. His gaze was fixed on his hands. According to Cynthia, it appeared dingy. discarded it early yesterday. She persisted that it conflicted with everything, even though I asked her not to. I was unable to persuade Cynthia to change her mind because your dad was out of town on a business trip.

For a moment, I was unable to breathe.

She tossed it aside.

There was more to that cushion than just cloth and ink. It was the link between Grandpa and Grandma Rose. To all that is warm and pleasant in his life.

I knelt down and encircled him with my arms. He felt so frail and little. “Pay close attention to what I say. She will not be able to get away with this. Do you think I’m trustworthy?

“Please don’t cause trouble on my account, sweetheart.”

I yelled angrily, “You’re not in anyone’s way,” “Don’t you ever think that.”

I got up, gave him a forehead kiss, and took off running. Go back up the stairs, pass through the kitchen, and head directly to the garage. In preparation for the pickup the following day, the garbage cans were already at the curb.

I pulled the first can’s lid off. Nothing. The second. Nothing.

The third.

It was there.

perched atop a heap of rotten bread and damp coffee grounds. Grandma Rose’s lovely, giggling face, possibly smeared with tomato sauce. The cushion smelled like trash and was wet.

I carefully picked it out and held it as if it were a priceless object.

“Sharon!”

I turned around. Cynthia was carrying shopping bags in her arms as she walked up the driveway. There are designer logos everywhere.

“Well, this is unexpected!” She spoke in a cheerful, sweet voice. “You weren’t anticipated until the next week. How come you’re out here? Oh my god, what’s that foul odor? “Oh!”

The damaged cushion in my hands caught her attention. In fact, she rolled her eyes.

“Please assure me that you are not genuinely clinging to that filthy old item. It was crumbling, Sharon. That eyesore had to go because I’m doing a minimalist makeover of the entire house.”

“An eyesore??” I slowly repeated the word. “Is Grandpa also like that? because he’s lying on a cot that belongs in a prison cell in your basement.”

“Oh, stop being theatrical!” She dismissively waved a manicured hand. “He has everything he requires. I should also tell you that your father and I are the owners of this house. How the space is distributed is up to us.

“Did my father agree to stick his own dad in a storage room?”

She tightened her smile. “How about we talk about this later? Tomorrow, Mark returns from his business trip. Hysterics are not necessary.”

I glanced at the pillow underneath. Then Cynthia again.

“You’re absolutely right,” I responded in a dangerously composed tone. “The discussion will be postponed until tomorrow. I’m taking Grandpa somewhere cozy for tonight for the time being. Tomorrow, we’ll see you for supper.

She squinted. “Suit yourself.”

I returned to the basement, assisted Grandpa with packing, and took him to the downtown motel. I hurried the pillow to a 24-hour dry cleaner that night, and the emergency service cost me twice as much. I was unconcerned. It was nearly brand-new by morning.

We went back to the house the following afternoon. There were a lot of cars in the driveway. Uncles, cousins, aunts, and everyone else had come for Thanksgiving. The aroma of roasted turkey and sage enveloped us as soon as we entered.

Refilling wine glasses, laughing her high, tinkling giggle, and gliding around the living room in a cream cashmere sweater, Cynthia was in her element. With his sleeves rolled up, my dad began slicing the turkey in the kitchen.

“Hi, Dad! You wanted to move to a more comfortable den, Cynthia informed me. Everything okay?”

We sat quietly at the huge dining table, and Grandpa grinned. waiting.

“Everyone, please take your seats!” Cynthia said as she took a seat at the head of the table. She held up her glass of wine. “I want to express my gratitude to each and every one of you. Let’s raise a glass to family and the amazing new chapters we’re all starting.

Everyone raised their glasses and said, “To new chapters!” together.

They drank, and I got up. Everybody turned to face me.

I stated unequivocally, “I’d also like to say something,” The commotion subsided.

“Cynthia just spoke on the value of family. I wholeheartedly concur. Family entails valuing the people we care about and preserving the most significant memories. Cynthia, don’t you think so?

Her smile was guarded and taut. “Naturally.”

“Amazing. Since we lost Grandma, Grandpa has been having difficulties. And things have become more difficult for him lately. He has been marginalized.

A pin could have dropped.

“Sharon, honey, what’s going on?” With a pallid face, my father asked. He put his carving knife down.

“The truth should really be known by everyone here, Dad. There isn’t a cozy den where Grandpa stays. In reality, he resides in the utility closet in the basement. on a metal cot. encircled by storage containers. Instead, Cynthia determined that she needed the guest room to work on her craft projects.

My father froze. His face turned gray instead of white. “What on earth are you discussing? According to Cynthia, he thought the guest room was too vacant and therefore preferred the smaller den.

“She lied to you.” My voice cracked a little. “See for yourself by going downstairs. Her sewing machines and rubbish are piled high in the den. Grandpa is dozing off amidst dust and cardboard boxes.

My father’s gaze gradually shifted to Cynthia. “Is this true?”

“She’s blowing everything out of proportion!” Cynthia’s face flushed as she stammered. “It’s actually quite comfortable down there!”

“There’s more, Dad,” I added in a chilly tone. “Do you recall the pillow I crocheted for him? The one with the image of Grandma on it?

My father gazed at me. “Yeah?”

Cynthia tossed it aside. Grandpa felt like a bother because of her. I discovered this in your trash yesterday, therefore I know what actually happened.”

I took the pillow out of my backpack and reached inside. The tiny stains were still visible even after cleaning.

That was the time.

My dad’s carving knife fell. The sound reverberated in the utter quiet as it clattered against the ceramic dish.

His father was sleeping in a dark cellar, but that wasn’t all he was hearing. It wasn’t only that he realized his mother’s face had been discarded.

In a single, terrifying moment, he realized that his wife had deceived him. Every part of his face showed how ashamed he was.

Aunt Carol, his sister, broke the quiet. “Mark? Tell me this isn’t true.

My father raised a quivering hand. He gazed at Cynthia as if he had never seen her before. “You informed me that my dad desired such arrangement. You lied while staring me in the eye.

“I believed I was acting in everyone’s best interests! He’s really fixed in his ways.

My father’s voice sounded dead and flat. “You put my father in a basement and threw my mother’s memory in the garbage.”

He didn’t shout. That’s why it was so scary.

“Go upstairs, Cynthia, and gather your belongings. NOW.

The gasps began at that point. A wine glass fell over.

“You can’t be serious.” Tears filled Cynthia’s eyes as her face broke. “It’s Thanksgiving, Mark. Right here, your whole family is seated.”

“You lied to me and denigrated my father. You acted as though he had no value. Leave my residence and get your belongings. NOW.

He looked at his brother. Can Dad stay with you tonight, Frank? Join them, Sharon.

“What are you going to do?” Silently, Aunt Carol inquired.

My dad turned to face Cynthia, who was sitting motionless in her chair with tears running down her cheeks.

“I’m going to remain here. I’m going to make sure she leaves my house by sunrise since it’s mine.”

That year, I never did receive a full Thanksgiving meal. However, I received something superior.

While Dad worked things out at home, Grandpa Bill temporarily moved in with Uncle Frank and Aunt Carol. There was a lot of activity, commotion, and grandchildren in their home.

He has a bedroom of his own with a proper bed and a window that lets in morning light. And he slept with Grandma Rose’s smile just inches from his face every night while holding that pillow tight.

Three days following Thanksgiving, Dad filed for divorce. A week later, he gave me a call in a gruff voice. “I should’ve checked on the situation myself instead of just accepting her version of everything.”

“She’s skilled at manipulation, Dad.”

“Not important. I am responsible for him. I let him down.

Dad is correct. He’s trying, though. That’s what matters.

I’m relieved that Grandpa and Dad have moved back. According to what I’ve been told, Cynthia moved out of town to live with her sister. I don’t give her much thought. When I do, though, I hope she recalls my dad’s expression when he learned what she had done.

For some things are more than simply objects. There are recollections that are more than clutter. Furthermore, some people—like my grandfather Bill—should be cherished rather than tucked away in basements like discarded holiday ornaments.