The Grandpa Who Never Let His Grandson Be Alone

I’ve been coming to this school every day for three months. I’m not a teacher or a janitor. I’m Matías’s grandfather, and I come because my grandson needs me.

The first time I saw him alone during recess, sitting on that bench under the jacaranda tree, my heart broke. The other kids ran, shouted, played soccer. Matías just watched, his hands on his knees, wearing that expression I know so well—the look of someone who wants to belong but doesn’t know how.

“Why don’t you play with the other kids?” I asked him that afternoon when I picked him up.

He shrugged.

“They don’t want to play with me, Grandpa.”

“Have you asked them?”

“Yes. They say I’m too slow, that I don’t understand the rules.”

That night I hardly slept. The next morning, I went to the principal.

“Ms. Mónica, I need a special permission. I want to accompany Matías during recess.”

She looked at me with those compassionate eyes that somehow mix pity and relief.

“Mr. Roberto, I understand your concern, but—”

“It’s non-negotiable,” I interrupted. “This boy is my life. If the school can’t make him feel included, I will.”

And so here I am. Every day at 10:30 a.m., I walk through that blue gate into the playground.

At first, the other children stared at me. An old man with a cane and a straw hat in the middle of recess. Matías got nervous.

“Grandpa, you don’t have to come. I’m embarrassed.”

“Embarrassed of what? That your grandfather loves you?”

“But the others…”

“The others don’t matter right now, Mati. You matter.”

We started slowly. I taught him to play dominoes on the bench. Then we brought a checkers board. Matías laughed when I pretended not to notice his sneaky moves.

One day, a small boy approached.

“What are you playing?” he asked curiously.

“Chinese checkers,” I replied. “Want to join? We have room for one more.”

His name was Diego. He had just lost his two front teeth. He sat down, and Matías patiently explained the rules. I watched him shine in a way I hadn’t seen in months.

The next day, Diego returned. And he brought his friend, Lucía.

“My dad plays checkers too,” Diego said. “He says your grandpa is really nice, Matías.”

“He’s the best grandpa in the world,” my grandson replied, and I had to swallow my tears.

Little by little, our bench became a meeting point. Some came to play, others just to chat. I told stories from when I was young, taught them old games. One day I brought a jump rope, and we held a championship. Matías couldn’t jump very fast because of his condition, but the other children adjusted their pace.

“Come on, Mati, you can do it!” Lucía cheered.

“Five jumps! Personal record!” Diego celebrated.

The PE teacher, Miss Carmen, came over one afternoon.

“Mr. Roberto, what you’re doing is extraordinary.”

“I’m just a grandfather taking care of his grandson.”

“No,” she said. “You’re teaching them something we sometimes forget: that everyone deserves a place, that friendship has no speed limits or skill requirements.”

Today, three months later, I keep coming. But it’s no longer because Matías is alone. It’s because eight or nine children shout, “Mr. Rober!” the moment I step through the gate. Because Matías has friends who invite him to birthdays, defend him when someone is cruel, and have learned to see beyond differences.

This morning, as we played hide-and-seek (yes, at seventy-two), Matías hugged me tight.

“Thank you, Grandpa.”

“For what, my boy?”

“For not leaving me alone. For teaching me it’s okay to be different.”

“Matías,” I said, kneeling to meet his eyes, “you’ve taught me. You’ve shown me that love never tires, that it’s never too late to make a difference, and that true courage is showing up when someone needs you.”

The bell rang. The children ran to their lines. Diego and Lucía high-fived Matías as they left. My grandson no longer walks with his head down.

Tomorrow I’ll come back. And the day after too. Because being a grandfather isn’t just about care—it’s about building bridges. It’s about showing that no one, absolutely no one, deserves to be alone in the playground of life.