Every morning, 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 sit still when my boy needs me. My name is Albert, and I do this for Timothymy pride, my joy, the reason I wake up each day.
The first time I saw him alone, he was sitting on a bench beneath an oak tree. Other children dashed about, laughing, kicking a football. He just watched, hands on his knees, his gaze longing but lost. When I collected him that afternoon, I asked, “Why dont you join in?” He shrugged. “They dont want me, Grandad. Say Im slow and dont get the rules.”
I didnt sleep that night.
The next morning, I spoke to the headmistress. “Mrs. Eleanor, Id like special permission to join Timothy at break time.” She gave me a kind look. “Mr. Albert, I understand your concern, but” “No ‘buts.’ That boy is my world. If the school cant make him feel included, I will.”
And so, every day at half ten, I stroll through the blue gates of the playground. At first, the children staredan old man in a tweed cap and cane among them. Timothy was embarrassed. “Grandad, you dont have to come.” “Embarrassed? Whats shameful about being loved?”
We started slow. Played draughts, then dominoes. Timothy giggled when I pretended not to notice his little cheats. Then one day, a boy wandered closer. “Whatre you playing?” he asked. “Chess,” I said. “Fancy a go?” His name was Oliver. Six years old, missing a front tooth, but his grin lit up the yard. Timothy explained the rules patiently.
The next day, Oliver returned with his friend Emily. Soon, our little corner became a meeting spot, brimming with laughter and sticky-fingered alliances. Someone brought a skipping rope, and before long, we had a competition. Timothy wasnt the quickest, but the others slowed their pace. “Come on, Tim, youve got this!” Emily cheered. “Five skips! New record!” Oliver whooped. I watched with damp eyes and a full heart.
One afternoon, the PE teacher approached me. “Mr. Albert, what youre doing is remarkable.” “Just a grandad who loves his boy,” I replied. “No,” she said softly, “youre teaching us something we forgetthat everyone deserves a place, no matter their speed.”
Three months have passed now. I still go. But not because Timothy is alone. I go because eight or nine children shout, “Grandad Al!” when I step through the gate. Because my boy has friends nowones who invite him, defend him, understand him.
This morning, during hide-and-seek, Timothy hugged me tight. “Thanks, Grandad.” “What for, lad?” “For not leaving me be. For showing me its alright to be different.” I knelt right there on the tarmac and said, “Timothy, you taught me. That love never tires, that its never too late to change things, and that real courage is standing by someone when they need you.”
The bell rang. The children scrambled into line. Timothy doesnt walk with his head down anymore.
Ill be back tomorrow. And the day after. Because being a grandparent isnt just about careits about building bridges. Reminding the world that no one, absolutely no one, should be left alone in the playground of life.
