💛 A Year Without Abu — A Story of Love That Never Dies 💛

My name is Gisel. It’s been a year since my father-in-law passed away, but sometimes, in the quiet of the evening, I swear I can still hear him laugh. That laugh — serious, deep, and contagious — could make the dullest room feel alive, the walls themselves seem to rejoice.

He wasn’t just a father-in-law to me. He was my second dad. A man who never knew how to stay still, always bursting with energy, always ready with a story, a joke, or a silly idea to make the girls laugh. He had that uncanny ability to turn an ordinary afternoon into something magical.

I remember one chilly afternoon. The smallest one, barely four, ran to him, eyes wide and sparkling:
—“Abu, tickle me!”

He stooped down dramatically, arms reaching for her tiny feet, and in a booming voice said:
—“Creeewww! The monster is coming for your feet!”

And just like that, the house erupted in laughter. The girls shrieked and ran in circles, their giggles echoing through every corner. I watched them from the sofa, sipping my coffee, and thought how lucky we were to have him in our lives.

But life has a way of changing everything in an instant.

One evening, the phone rang. It was my sister-in-law, crying. I could barely understand her through her sobs:
—“Dad… he had an accident at work. It’s serious.”

The word serious hit me like a physical blow. I couldn’t breathe. I couldn’t imagine a world in which he, the man who had given so much to our family, could suddenly be in danger.

The next days were a blur of hospital visits, monitor readings, doctors’ explanations. Weeks stretched into months, months into a year and a half. The medical term vegetative state became part of our vocabulary, a cruel label that didn’t match the man we knew. He had been full of life, full of laughter, full of love. Now, he was trapped in a body that could no longer respond.

My husband visited him every day. “Dad, wake up,” he would whisper softly. “The girls are waiting for you to tickle them.” And I, standing silently in the corner, prayed in my own way, whispering to God for a miracle.

But miracles, I learned, don’t always come when we want them to.

A year ago, he left us.

No fanfare, no last words, no warnings. Just silence, as if he didn’t want to disturb anyone with his departure.

The girls felt it most of all. The elder, barely seven at the time, came to me one evening, eyes wide, voice trembling:
—“Mom… is Grandpa in heaven?”
—“Yes, my love,” I said softly.
—“And… does he tickle there too?”

I didn’t know how to answer. How could I explain that love doesn’t die, that laughter can live on even when someone is gone?

He had taken a job in the city just before the accident. He wanted to be closer to his granddaughters, to watch them grow, walk them to school, cheer at their performances. Life gave him no time.

And yet, his presence remained. In the corners of our home, in the echoes of giggles, in the small traditions he had started — bedtime stories, silly games, tickle fights, and shared ice creams.

I watch the girls often, quietly, as they look at his photographs. The smallest caresses the phone screen and whispers, almost as if in conversation:
—“I’m back, Abu.”

It breaks me every time.

Last night, just before bed, the elder whispered to me:
—“Mom… I dreamt that Grandpa tickled me.”
—“Yes? What did he say?” I asked.
—“I hope he’s not sad. That even if we don’t see him, he still laughs with us.”

For the first time in months, I cried — not from grief, but from something deeper. A recognition that love, real love, doesn’t end with a body or a heartbeat. It lives on in memory, in actions, in hearts.

I remembered the little moments. The way he would invent stories at the dinner table, each tale more absurd than the last, yet somehow perfect for the girls. The way he would sneak extra cookies into their hands when they weren’t looking. The quiet way he would reassure me, his daughter-in-law, when life felt impossible, that everything would be okay.

Even in his absence, he continues to teach us. My daughters now laugh at stories he told, mimic his playful antics, even call out “Abu!” when they feel joy. His spirit has become woven into the fabric of our daily lives, a reminder that love cannot be measured by years alone.

Sometimes I imagine him sitting with us at the kitchen table, telling the girls to sit still, or sneaking a playful poke to make them squeal. I imagine his laughter spilling into the room, filling the spaces that grief tried to occupy.

And I understand now, more than ever, that this is the true miracle. Not that he came back to us in the flesh, but that he remains alive in our hearts, in our stories, in the way we choose to love each other.

I see it in my husband’s eyes when he looks at the girls. I see it in mine when I whisper a bedtime prayer. I see it in the smallest gestures — a hug, a story, a shared smile.

Grief taught us to hold tighter, to cherish more fiercely, to laugh even when tears are near. And it taught us that some people — like Abu — leave a mark so deep that even death cannot erase it.

We have learned to live with his absence, but also to celebrate his presence in every small thing. And in that, the girls and I have found a peace that feels like him: constant, warm, and full of life.

A year without him has been hard, yes. But it has also been full of moments where his love shines through. Moments like the girls looking at his photo and whispering “I’m back, Abu,” or the elder dreaming of him and feeling his laughter in her heart.

Some loves, I have realized, do not end. They do not fade. They transcend time and space. And grandfathers like him… live forever.

✨ “Some loves are so deep, so powerful, that even death cannot diminish them. And a grandfather like Abu… he will live in our hearts, forever laughing, forever loving, forever with us.”