Maternal Grandfather
When I was nine, I met Bill, my mother’s biological father. He was introduced simply as Bill, no title, no fanfare—just a wiry Southern man with a warm grin and eyes that sparkled with mischief. From the moment we shook hands, we clicked. It was like finding a friend I’d known forever. Bill was a Southern boy through and through, born and bred in the heart of North Carolina, with a drawl that made every story feel like a fireside tale.
Every Sunday, without fail, the phone would ring. Bill. He would speak to my mother first. Then, when it was my turn he’d ask about school, any new happenings going on in my life, about the little things that made me tick. I’d ramble on, and he’d listen, chuckling or tossing in a bit of wisdom wrapped in that easy Southern cadence. I never called him Grandpa. It didn’t feel right, not because I didn’t care, but because “Bill” felt like enough. Because “Bill” is who I was introduced to. Looking back, I wish I’d tried the word on for size.
Bill was a man of action, not just words. When I was 17, he got it in his head that I needed to visit him in North Carolina. “Boy, I’m gonna teach you how to fish proper,” he said, “and how to draw a bow like a real man.” He sent money for a plane ticket, and I was over the moon, picturing lazy days by the river and the twang of a bowstring. I could already feel the weight of his hand on my shoulder, proud and steady. My heart, raced so fast with excitement I thought it was about to pop out of my chest.
Then came the hitch. Bill found out I was seventeen and still didn’t have my driver’s license. To him, that was a crime against manhood. “Every young man needs his license,” he declared, his voice firm over the phone. No amount of pleading could sway him. He canceled the trip and told my mother to use the vacation money for driver’s ed. I was furious, but Bill’s stubborn streak was ironclad. I got my license that year, grumbling the whole way, but I’d be lying if I said I didn’t feel a flicker of pride when I told him I’d passed. This is also why I don’t drive reckless. I obey the rules of the road. For Bill.
When I enlisted in the Marine Corps, again at seventeen, Bill’s pride roared through the phone line. “A Marine, huh? That’s my boy!” he said, his voice thick with emotion. He promised he’d be there at my graduation, front and center, to hear them call me a Marine for the first time. I held onto that promise like a lifeline, imagining him in the crowd, his grin wide as the Carolina sky.
But life doesn’t care about promises. Two months before I shipped out to Parris Island, Bill died. It was Easter Sunday, of all days, and the news hit me like a rifle butt to the chin. My mother walked over to me while I was shoving ham down my gullet. With tears in her eyes, she told me that Bill had died. I stood up, walked upstairs to the bathroom, and broke down. I looked in the mirror and saw that the ham I had shoveled into my mouth was still hanging there. I was gutted. Mad at him for leaving, mad at myself for never calling him Grandpa, for never saying “I love you.” Those words felt too big, too vulnerable, and now they were locked away forever. I carried that anger like a stone, heavy and sharp.
Bill’s death taught me something I’ll never forget: never promise anyone anything unless it’s that you’ll do your best. He did his best, always—calling every Sunday, pushing me to be a better man, loving me in his quiet, steady way. I never got to fish with him or draw that bow, but he gave me something better: a fire to live fully, to show up, to say what matters before it’s too late.
Now, when I think of Bill, I don’t just feel the ache of what I didn’t say. I hear his laugh, see his grin, and I know he’d be proud of the man I’m trying to be. And if I could talk to him one more time, I’d say it loud and clear: “I love you, Grandpa.”