My five-year-old grandson whispered that his parents were hiding something in the garage.

So I turned the car around.

I expected a harmless surprise.

Maybe a birthday gift.

Maybe some half-finished project they didn’t want me to see yet.

Instead, what I found in that garage pulled me straight back into a part of my life I had buried for forty years.

I picked Noah up from kindergarten a couple of afternoons each week and brought him to my house until his parents finished work.

Those drives were some of my favorite times with him.

Noah could talk endlessly.

Dinosaurs.

Classroom drama.

What someone had packed for lunch.

Which kid had cried at recess.

That afternoon, he was strapped into his car seat when his voice suddenly dropped to a whisper.

“Grandma, I’m going to tell you a secret.”

I smiled at him through the rearview mirror.

“Oh?”