My ex-wife’s grandfather, Orville, was a millionaire. While everyone else in the family tried to stay on his good side, I never played along. One day he called, asking if we needed money. I told him the only thing I truly wanted was for my kids to have the chance to know their great-grandfather. That summer, to everyone’s surprise, he invited me and the kids to spend the season with him at his lake house in Minnesota. He said he wanted to go fishing and share the life lessons he’d learned over his ninety-plus years. My ex was livid, assuming I had some angle, but all I really wanted was for my kids to make memories they’d never forget.
I packed up the car with sleeping bags and fishing rods, and we drove the eight hours, singing silly songs and trading stories the whole way. When we finally arrived, Orville was waiting by the dock with his old dog, Rufus. The kids sprinted into his arms, and I’d never seen him look so genuinely happy. That night, once the kids were asleep, Orville and I sat on the porch sipping decaf coffee. He thanked me for coming and admitted he didn’t think he had much time left.
He told me how his own kids had drifted away, caught up in chasing careers and material things. He said he respected me for choosing experiences over money. The next morning, he woke the kids before sunrise so they could watch the sky turn shades of pink and orange above the misty lake, loons calling in the distance. He taught them how to bait hooks, cast lines, and wait quietly.
The days slipped by like a dream—swimming, roasting marshmallows, and hearing Orville’s stories. He told them about falling off a bike as a kid and how his dad carried him three miles home. He taught them to whittle sticks into animals, just like his grandfather taught him. One afternoon, my son Alex asked about the tiny, worn Bible Orville always carried. He said it reminded him to stay humble.
My daughter Lila once asked if he’d ever been afraid. His eyes grew distant as he spoke about the Korean War and praying each night to survive. I watched the kids soak in every word, knowing these were the moments they’d carry for life. Each night, we’d gather by the fire as Orville read from dusty old adventure novels he’d saved in the attic.
One night, a summer storm rolled in, thunder crashing and lightning streaking across the lake. The kids were scared, but Orville calmly explained that storms were nature’s way of starting fresh. He showed them how to count between thunder and lightning to tell how far away it was. Soon, they were giggling under blankets, fearless.
Halfway through the summer, my ex showed up without warning, new boyfriend in tow. She tried to charm Orville, flaunting designer shoes and fancy cars. He didn’t say much—just looked at her with quiet disappointment. That evening…