Earlier this year, my youngest had just turned ten.
We parked outside the grocery store and started walking in, side by side. No rush. Just the usual errand.
And then—he reached for my hand.
Just like he used to when he was little.
I didn’t say anything. I didn’t squeeze it or draw attention to it. I just held it.
For maybe ten seconds.
And then he let go. Probably without thinking. Or maybe because he realized what he had done.
Either way, he moved on. And so did we.
But I carried it.
Because it felt like a small window into what used to be. A quick reminder that he’s still little sometimes—even as he grows.
And I was glad I didn’t miss it by checking my phone.
Ten seconds. That’s all it was.
But it was enough.
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