“People were trying to tell him he was a genius, you know,” I looked pointedly at Peter, “But he just never could accept that title, was real humble about it all.”

“I don’t think you’re so humble like him, Grampy,” My grandson smiled coyly up at me from his position on the threadbare carpet.

“Rude, but true,” I smiled nostalgically, “My dad and I were always very different, but his stories really connected us more than anything. I guess his stories connected him to a lot of people.”

“He was a good storyteller.” Peter understood this at the young age of 10. Everyone who read his stories agreed, and hundreds of thousands had.

“He was the best storyteller,” I corrected. I still often wondered where his gift with words came from, and if any part of it lay dormant in me. I had long ago settled on assuming the answer to the latter was no.

“Did he ever write a story about you?” Peter questioned.

I inhaled sharply, this topic still poked at an old ache in my heart, even after all these years.

“No,” I answered. “He never did.”

“He wrote one about mom,” Peter looked confused.

“Yes,” I tried to conceal my saddened smile. “Yes, he did.”

“Are you sad he never put you in a story?” Peter looked worried. I opted to tell the truth.

“A little bit, sometimes.” I smiled reassuringly. “But it made me happy to see him write about other people he loved.” Even if I was never one of them, I thought.

“He loved you, too,” Peter moved to my lap, a decision I found endearing. “I know it because he wrote about mom and you love mom, so he knew you would be happy.”

“That’s a nice way to think about it,” I replied, touched.

“And some love is too big for words,” Peter took my hand in his small, slightly sticky hand. “So maybe great-grampy just loved you too much to put you in a story.”

I squeezed his little hand and smiled a true smile while my eyes began to water. “You’re making me think about this all different now, Peter. Who knew children could be so wise?”