Chapter 187 Grandpa Lost the Sauce!

Chapter 187 Grandpa Lost the Sauce!
Jane's POV

"I think I'd like to make something to eat," Jacob said quietly, his voice still unsteady from the emotional storm we'd just weathered. "Sarah always said food brings people together when words aren't enough."

I exchanged a relieved glance with David. After the intensity of talking Jacob down from his suicide attempt, this simple, normal suggestion felt like the first breath after nearly drowning.

"That sounds perfect," David replied, helping the older man to his feet.

We followed Jacob to the kitchen, where he moved with the careful deliberation of someone trying to anchor himself in familiar routines. His hands trembled slightly as he opened cabinets and pulled out ingredients, but there was purpose in his movements.

"I hope you don't mind Mexican food," he said, pulling dried chilies and spices from a shelf. "It's what I know best."

The kitchen exhaust fan hummed steadily as Jacob worked, the aroma of searing meat and peppers gradually filling the space. I leaned against the doorframe, watching as he focused intently on each step, as if the precise measurements and familiar motions were keeping darker thoughts at bay.

David stepped beside me, quietly taking my hand. "He seems to know what he's doing," he whispered.

"It reminds me of my mom," I replied softly. "She tried learning Mexican recipes when I was young. She never quite mastered them, but I loved helping her try. She'd always laugh when the salsa turned out too spicy or too mild."

Jacob turned toward us, catching my words. A ghost of a smile crossed his face. "Sarah was the same way at first. Couldn't get the spices right to save her life." His voice grew warmer with the memory. "First time she came to my house, she ate three of my tacos in one sitting despite them being too hot for her. Later I taught her how to make the salsa, but she always second-guessed herself. 'Uncle Jacob, will one more pinch make it too salty?'"

His voice caught on the last words, and he quickly turned back to the stove, shoulders tense.

"Can I help with anything?" I offered, moving closer.

"No, no, you two just sit," he said, gesturing toward the dining table without turning around. "It helps me... to do this myself."

David guided me to sit down, his fingers gently tracing circles on the back of my hand. Soon Jacob emerged with the food—golden corn tortillas arranged beside seasoned meat and fresh toppings.

"Just home cooking, nothing fancy," he said, settling into his chair. He picked up a tortilla but didn't immediately start eating, his gaze distant.

"Luke was such a quiet boy," he began, voice unsteady. "He'd come home from school and sit in the yard reading. When I'd call him for dinner, he always said, 'Just let me finish this chapter.'" Jacob paused, swallowing hard. "One birthday, I made him tacos, but he gave his portion to a stray cat, saying, 'The kitty needs it more than I do.'"

I paused mid-bite, listening intently as Jacob painted a picture of that tender-hearted boy.

"After he got his prosthetic, Luke went through a phase where he wouldn't leave the house. Sarah would come by every day with tacos, sit in his room and talk to him, even when he wouldn't respond. She never gave up."

Jacob's eyes moistened. "When Sarah set her mind to something, that was it—no changing course. Aaron, though, that little rascal was nothing like his father."

He attempted a chuckle that sounded more like a suppressed sob. "When Aaron was five, he snuck the taco sauce and hid it in his closet, then mimicked my voice telling Luke, 'Grandpa lost the sauce!' Luke helped Aaron 'find' it anyway, couldn't bring himself to scold the boy."

Jacob wiped his eyes before continuing. "Another time, Aaron tried to copy the way Luke walked with his prosthetic, tiptoeing around the yard until he fell. Luke was in his wheelchair, and through his laughter said, 'Silly boy, Daddy's legs don't work right, but you shouldn't copy that.'"

David squeezed my hand gently. "Aaron sounds like he was quite the character."

"Oh, he was," Jacob nodded, his smile genuine but shadowed with grief. "Always pestering me for stories about Luke and Sarah. He'd say, 'Grandpa, when I grow up, I want to protect someone I love, just like Daddy did.'" Jacob's voice wavered. "Later, when he learned about his grandmother's death, he'd research all night. I told him not to obsess, but he insisted, 'Grandpa, this is something Daddy couldn't finish. I have to help him.'"

My throat tightened. "He must have loved you both so much. When I was little, I envied kids with complete families. Now I realize that love isn't about blood—it's about genuine care."

"You're right," Jacob looked at me, tears freely falling now. "For years I thought I failed as a grandfather. Seeing you now, I understand some regrets can be mended."

David smiled gently. "We'll visit often, listen to your stories, share our lives too."

Jacob nodded, finally picking up his tortilla. "Next time, I'll tell you about Sarah's first attempt at tacos. Mixed up sugar and salt—" his voice cracked, but he continued, "—but stubbornly insisted it was a 'new flavor.'"

We shared a subdued laugh. Outside, night was falling, but the living room felt warmer than before. We talked about the past with both tenderness and grief, those old grudges slowly dissolving in shared memories.

"Next time we'll make enchiladas," Jacob said suddenly, wiping his eyes. "If Aaron were here, he'd fight to sprinkle the cheese, probably sneak extra when we weren't looking."

"That sounds perfect," I replied softly. "We'll make plenty—enough for Aaron to have his share too."

Jacob nodded, his smile both heartbroken and peaceful. I knew his healing wouldn't happen overnight, but in this moment, we had all chosen to take a small step forward together, honoring both our pain and our capacity to find connection through it.

"You know," Jacob said, gazing at the flickering candle, "there were so many evenings like this when Aaron was small. He'd sit right where you are, Jane, begging for one more story about his father." He drew a shaky breath. "I never knew when those moments would be the last ones."

The weight of his words settled over us—not crushing us, but reminding us of the fragile beauty of being together while we could.