Every morning, I stroll through the school gates to see my grandchildren. Im not a teacher or staffjust an old bloke with a walking stick and a heart that refuses to sit still when my grandson needs me.
My names Albert, and I do this for Olivermy pride, my joy, my reason for getting up in the morning. The first time I saw him alone, he was perched on a bench under an oak tree. Other kids dashed about, laughing, kicking a football. He just sat there, hands on his knees, staring like someone who wanted to belong but didnt know how.
When I picked him up that day, I asked, “Why not join in with the others?” He shrugged. “They dont want me, Grandad. Say Im too slow and dont get the rules.” I didnt sleep a wink that night.
The next morning, I had a word with the headmistress. “Miss Eleanor, Id like special permission to join Oliver at breaktime.” She gave me a kind look. “Mr. Albert, I understand your concern, but” “No buts. That little boys my world. If the school cant make him feel included, I will.”
So, every day at half ten, I shuffle through the blue gates of the playground. At first, the kids gawkedan old man in a flat cap and walking stick among them. Oliver was shy. “Grandad, you dont have to come.” “Whats there to be shy about? Doesnt your grandad love you?”
We started slow. Played dominoes, then draughts. Oliver grinned when I pretended not to notice his sneaky moves. One day, a boy wandered over. “Whats that youre playing?” “Chequers,” I said. “Fancy a go?” His name was Archie. He was six, missing two front teeth, but his grin lit up the yard. Oliver patiently explained the rules.
The next day, Archie returned with his friend Emily. Before long, our little corner became the meeting spotfull of laughter and new friendships. We brought out a skipping rope and ended up having mini competitions. Oliver couldnt skip fast, but the others adjusted their pace. “Come on, Olly, youve got this!” Emily cheered. “Five skips! New record!” Archie whooped. I watched with damp eyes and a full heart.
One afternoon, the P.E. teacher approached me. “Mr. Albert, what youre doing is remarkable.” “Just a grandad who loves his boy,” I replied. She smiled. “Noits teaching us something we sometimes forget: everyone deserves a place, no matter their speed.”
Three months on, I still go. Not because Olivers alone anymore. I go because now, eight or nine kids shout “Grandad Al!” when I walk in. Because my grandson has friends whove learnt to include him, defend him, and understand him.
This morning, during hide-and-seek, Oliver hugged me tight. “Thanks, Grandad.” “What for, lad?” “For not leaving me behind. For showing me its alright to be different.” I knelt down and said, “Oliver, you taught *me*. That love never tires, its never too late to make a change, and that real courage is showing up when someone needs you.”
The bell rang. Kids scampered off to class. Oliver doesnt walk with his head down anymore. Ill be back tomorrow. And the day after that.
Because being a grandparent isnt just about careits about building bridges and reminding the world that no one, absolutely no one, should sit alone on the playground of life.
