It was a quiet Sunday morning. The sun peeked through the curtains, casting soft golden light across the room. The house was still, except for the sound of birds chirping outside and the occasional creak of the wooden floor.
Bibi sat curled up on the couch with his favorite blanket wrapped around him. His stuffed lion, Leo, sat beside him, as quiet and still as Bibi. His eyes looked out the window, not really seeing the trees or the sky. He wasn’t thinking about the cartoons he usually loved to watch on Sundays. He wasn’t even excited about breakfast, which usually included pancakes shaped like smiley faces.
He was just… sad.
His dad noticed something was off. Usually, Bibi was full of energy, bouncing around the house, giggling, and asking a million questions. But today, he looked like a little gray cloud, heavy and still.
“Hey buddy,” Dad said gently, sitting next to him on the couch. “You’re very quiet this morning. Everything okay?”
Bibi shrugged and pulled the blanket a little tighter around his shoulders. “I guess,” he said, but his voice was small and unsure.
Dad reached out and gently rubbed Bibi’s back. “You can tell me what’s on your mind. I’m here.”
There was a long pause. Bibi looked down at his lion and whispered, “I miss Grandma.”
Dad nodded slowly, understanding. “Yeah… I miss her too.”
Bibi looked up with watery eyes. “It’s been a long time since we saw her. I want to hug her. I want to hear her stories. I want to smell her cookies when we walk in the door.”
Dad smiled softly. “She does make the best cookies. Chocolate chip, right?”
Bibi nodded and wiped his eyes. “And her hugs are warm. Like… like sitting in the sun.”
“I know exactly what you mean,” Dad said. “Grandma’s hugs are magic.”
There was another silence as they sat together. Bibi leaned into his dad’s side, and Dad wrapped an arm around him.
“Why can’t we go see her?” Bibi asked quietly.
Dad sighed. “Well, she lives far away, and sometimes life gets busy. But that doesn’t mean we don’t think about her or love her just as much.”
Bibi frowned. “But thinking doesn’t make her cookies. And it doesn’t make hugs.”
“No,” Dad agreed. “It doesn’t. But love can still travel, even when people are far apart.”
Bibi looked puzzled. “How?”
“Well,” Dad said, thinking, “like when she sends you letters or little packages with stickers and drawings. That’s her love coming through the mail.”
Bibi’s eyes lit up a little. “Yeah, she sent me that card with the puppy that looks like Leo.”
“Exactly,” Dad smiled. “And when you draw pictures for her or send her a voice message, that’s you sending your love back.”
“But it’s not the same,” Bibi whispered.
Dad nodded. “You’re right. It’s not the same. Missing someone means you really love them. It hurts a little because your heart is big.”
Bibi rested his head against Dad’s chest. “I wish she could come here. Or we could go there.”
“I know, buddy. Me too,” Dad said softly. “And maybe we can plan something soon. But for today… how about we do something that reminds us of Grandma?”
“Like what?” Bibi asked, a tiny bit of curiosity creeping into his voice.
“Well,” Dad said, standing up slowly, “we could bake cookies. Her special chocolate chip recipe. I think we have everything we need.”
Bibi blinked. “Really? We can do that?”
“Of course,” Dad said. “And while we bake, we can talk about our favorite memories of her.”
Bibi stood up, letting the blanket fall to the floor. He picked up Leo and followed Dad into the kitchen.
They got out the flour, sugar, butter, and chocolate chips. Dad lifted Bibi up onto the counter so he could help mix. As they measured and stirred, they talked.
“Remember when she let me wear her big sunglasses and I looked like a movie star?” Bibi laughed.
Dad chuckled. “You were the most fashionable movie star in Grandma’s living room.”
“And the time she let me help decorate the Christmas cookies, but I put too many sprinkles?”
“She said it was the most sparkly cookie she’d ever seen.”
They kept laughing, stirring, and remembering. The kitchen smelled like warmth and love. When the cookies were finally in the oven, Bibi sat on the floor with Leo in his lap, watching the oven window.
“I think Grandma would be proud of our cookies,” he said.
“I think she would too,” Dad agreed, crouching beside him. “Want to send her a picture of them later?”
Bibi nodded eagerly. “And maybe we can call her?”
“Absolutely.”
Later that afternoon, with a plate of fresh cookies in front of them, Bibi and Dad sat on the couch again. This time, Bibi looked brighter. He still missed Grandma—he always would—but he didn’t feel quite as heavy inside.
“Thanks, Dad,” he said, nibbling on a cookie.
“For what, buddy?”
“For listening. And making cookies. And making me feel better.”
Dad smiled and kissed the top of Bibi’s head. “That’s what I’m here for.”
They sat in comfortable silence, the kind that feels full, not empty. The sun had moved higher in the sky, pouring light across the floor. Leo sat in Bibi’s lap, and for the first time that day, Bibi gave him a big squeeze.
“I think Grandma would say these are perfect,” Bibi said proudly.
Dad smiled. “And I think she’d be proud of you.”
That night, as Bibi got ready for bed, Dad helped him write a little note for Grandma. Bibi drew a picture of the cookies they made and wrote: “Dear Grandma, I miss you very much. We made cookies today and thought of you. I hope we can see you soon. Love, Bibi.”
As Dad tucked him into bed, Bibi whispered, “I still miss her… but I feel better now.”
“That’s okay,” Dad said softly. “It’s okay to miss someone and still feel happy too. That’s part of love.”
Bibi smiled sleepily and hugged Leo close. “Goodnight, Dad.”
“Goodnight, buddy. Sweet dreams.”
