Grandma and Grandpa were visiting their kids overnight, a rare treat that brought warmth and laughter to the usually quiet house. Their arrival was met with excited hugs from the grandchildren, who had been counting down the days. Luggage in tow and smiles wide, they stepped into the cozy living room where the smell of baked cookies and lasagna—Grandma’s favorite—greeted them like an old friend.
After dinner, stories flowed like a gentle river. Grandpa launched into tales from his childhood: stealing apples from Old Man Johnson’s yard, riding his bike without brakes down Main Street, and dancing with Grandma at the town fair. The kids sat cross-legged at his feet, eyes wide with wonder, hanging on every word. Grandma, meanwhile, beamed quietly, occasionally correcting a detail or nudging him when he started exaggerating.
Later, the kids begged for one more story, and Grandma took over with a soft, loving voice. She told them how she first met Grandpa in high school. “He had this ridiculous hair,” she said, drawing giggles. “And he wore a leather jacket he thought made him look cool.” Grandpa chuckled and shrugged. “Still do,” he said, patting his balding head.
As bedtime rolled around, the kids reluctantly shuffled off to bed, each getting a warm goodnight kiss from Grandma and a bear hug from Grandpa. The house quieted. In the guest room, Grandma placed her old satin nightgown on the bed and brushed her hair at the mirror. “You think we’re getting old?” she asked.
Grandpa looked up from untying his shoes. “We’ve been old,” he said, smiling. “But tonight… feels like yesterday.”
They stayed up longer than usual, sitting side-by-side in the living room with mugs of tea. They spoke in whispers, reminiscing about when their kids were little, about missed opportunities and things they were proud of. Grandma dabbed at her eyes when they spoke about their youngest, now off in another state. “Time is sneaky,” she said. “One minute they’re in diapers, the next they’re driving you to the airport.”
In the morning, the smell of fresh pancakes and brewed coffee brought the kids and grandkids downstairs. Grandpa was already in the backyard teaching the youngest how to hold a baseball bat. Grandma was humming as she flipped pancakes in the kitchen, using the same griddle she gave her daughter years ago.
The visit was short, just one night, but it left a mark. The kids promised to visit more often. The grandkids asked when they could go to Grandma and Grandpa’s house next. As they drove away, waving from the car, Grandma reached over and squeezed Grandpa’s hand.
“I like these visits,” she said.
He nodded. “Best kind of medicine.”
And just like that, the house fell quiet again—but the warmth lingered.
