**Diary Entry**
Every day, I walk to my grandsons school. Im not a teacher or a staff memberjust an old man with a walking stick and a heart that wont stay still when my boy needs me. My name is Arthur, and I do this for Olivermy pride, my joy, my reason for living.
The first time I saw him alone, he was sitting on a bench beneath an oak tree. Other children ran about, laughing, playing football. He just watched, hands on his knees, with the look of someone who wanted to belong but didnt know how. When I picked him up that day, I asked, Why dont you join your mates? He shrugged. They dont want me, Grandad. Say Im too slow and dont get the rules.
I didnt sleep that night.
The next morning, I spoke to the headmistress. Miss Eleanor, Id like permission to join Oliver during break. She gave me a kind look. Mr. Whitmore, I understand your concern, but No buts, I said. That little boy is my life. If the school cant make him feel included, I will.
Every day since, at half ten, I walk through the blue gates of the playground. At first, the children staredan old man in a flat cap and cane among them. Oliver was embarrassed. Grandad, you dont have to come. I squeezed his shoulder. Whats there to be ashamed of? Your grandad loves you, doesnt he?
We started slowdominoes, then draughts. Oliver giggled when I pretended not to notice his little cheats. One day, a boy edged closer. Whatre you playing? he asked. Draughts, I said. Fancy a go? His name was Jack. He was six, missing two front teeth, but his grin lit up the yard. Oliver explained the rules patiently. The next day, Jack returned with his friend Emily.
Soon, our bench became a meeting spot, filled with laughter and friendship. Someone brought a skipping rope, and before long, we had a little competition. Oliver wasnt the quickest, but the others adjusted their pace. Come on, Olly, youve got this! Emily shouted. Five skips! New record! Jack cheered. I watched them with damp eyes and a full heart.
One afternoon, the P.E. teacher approached me. Mr. Whitmore, what youre doing is extraordinary. I shook my head. Just a grandad who loves his boy. No, she said, smiling. Youre teaching us something we sometimes forgetthat everyone deserves a place, no matter their speed.
Three months have passed. I still go. But not because Oliver is alone. I go because now, eight or nine children shout, Grandad Art! when I walk through the gates. Because my grandson has friends who invite him, defend him, understand him.
This morning, as we played hide-and-seek, Oliver hugged me tight. Thanks, Grandad. I ruffled his hair. What for, lad? For not leaving me behind. For showing me its alright to be different.
I knelt before him, my voice thick. Oliver, you taught *me*. That love never tires, that its never too late to make a difference, and that true courage is showing up when someone needs you.
The bell rang. The children rushed to line up. Oliver no longer walks with his head down.
Ill be back tomorrow. And the day after. Because being a grandparent isnt just about caringits about building bridges. Reminding the world that no one, absolutely no one, should be left alone on the playground of life.
