My son looked at me one afternoon and said, “Mommy, when you were a little girl and I was a man, we danced in the garden behind the white tree.” My heart stopped. The only person I ever danced with in that garden was my grandfather. His backyard had a giant white oak that watched over our happiest moments. When I was six or seven, he’d turn on his old radio, hold out his hand, and we’d dance barefoot in the grass. It was our secret joy—simple, magical, and only ours.
I never told anyone about those afternoons. Not my parents, not friends—no one. After my grandfather passed, that memory became a private treasure I tucked away. So how could my five-year-old son know something he never witnessed? I asked softly, “What else do you remember?” He smiled and said, “You wore a yellow dress.....
