Grandchildren are like an inheritance: they come into your life without you having done anything to truly deserve them. Without going through the pains of falling in love, without the bonds of marriage, without the struggles and hardships of motherhood or fatherhood.
A grandchild is, in every way, blood of your blood.
With age comes a subtle nostalgia: the kind that remembers when the house was filled with children, games, and light laughter. And now, you look around and wonder:
Where have the children gone?
They’ve become adults full of responsibilities.
The children of the past—those who ran between the drying sheets and asked you a thousand “whys”—now have jobs, mortgages, partners, in-laws, duties, and busy schedules.
You look at them and no longer recognize them. They are no longer those children whose every laugh you hold in your memory.
They are men. Women. Others, different from you.
And then, one ordinary day, without anyone asking you to suffer or wait nine months, they hand you a newborn.
Freely. Like a gift from the sky.
Without cries, without pain, you find yourself embracing what you had stopped expecting: a small piece of your children returned to you.
And the most beautiful thing is that no one judges you for loving them madly.
You have the right, recognized by everyone, to spoil, pamper, and adore them without limits.
I believe that life gives us grandchildren to make up for the losses that come with old age.
They are new loves—deep, free, joyful—that fill the void left by younger years.
And when that small, still half-asleep body looks at you and, with a voice thick with dreams, says:
“Grandpa!” or “Grandma!”
then yes, your heart bursts inside you. Like bread rising in the warmth of the oven.
And there you understand that life, despite everything, is still capable of surprising you.