She didn’t remember the birthday parties.
Or the toys. Or even the family holidays.
And I don’t blame her.
She was so little then. Just four when I left.
She probably doesn’t remember how we used to twirl in the kitchen, her tiny feet stepping on mine as we danced across the tiles.
Or how she used to call strawberries “strawbabies.”
Or the way she’d belt out songs into a plastic spoon like it was a microphone — off-key, loud, and proud.
I remember those things.
Clear as day.
Because when you’re a grandparent, you learn to treasure the smallest moments.
You learn that time is a tricky thing — fast, slippery, and sacred.
But kids?
They’re sponges for the now.
You never know what sticks.
When I moved — not forever, just across the country — I told myself she’d forget most of it.
It wasn’t a sad goodbye, not really. Life just shifted.
A new job for her parents.
A fresh start for me.
And suddenly, our everyday moments turned into occasional visits and phone calls.
We did our best.
But you know how it goes.
Distance, even with love, can feel heavy.
So I adjusted my expectations.
She was four, after all.
What could she possibly hold onto?
Then, one afternoon, her mom sent me a video.
Just a regular moment — no big occasion.
My granddaughter was sitting in her room, surrounded by dolls and stuffed animals, lost in the little world only children seem to understand.
I watched it once. Then again.
And again.
In the video, she gently tucked one of her dolls under a blanket.
She smoothed the corner just so, the way I used to do for her.
And then, in the softest voice, she whispered:
“You’re my sunshine. Always.”
I pressed pause.
Tears came fast.
That was our thing.
Every night, without fail.
No matter how long the day had been, no matter how many stories I’d already read, no matter how many cups of water she’d begged for after bedtime — I’d lean down, kiss her forehead, and say it:
“You’re my sunshine. Always.”
It was our ritual.
A little line tucked into a hundred nights.
I never thought twice about it.
And yet… she remembered.
Not the presents.
Not the parties.
Not the outings I once worried weren’t “big enough.”
She remembered that.
It made me think about all the tiny things we do — the offhand words, the background kindness — and how those might be the very things that stay.
Because what she remembered wasn’t expensive.
Wasn’t flashy.
It was love, spoken in a whisper, over and over again in the dark.
And maybe that’s what childhood really is — a collection of gentle moments woven into something strong.
Stronger than time.
Stronger than distance.
That one video reminded me that what we do daily, even when it feels mundane, matters more than we know.
It made me realize that our words — especially the quiet ones — linger.
Later that week, we had a video call.
She held up a drawing she’d made of us — stick figures under a bright yellow sun.
She pointed and said, “That’s me and you. Because you said I was your sunshine.”
I smiled and nodded, heart full.
“Yes,” I said. “You always have been.”
Sometimes, I still worry.
That I’m missing too much.
That she’ll outgrow the memories before we can make more.
But then I remember:
She doesn’t need grand gestures.
She just needs love.
Consistency.
And those quiet reminders that she’s always been seen, always been cherished.
I started writing her letters after that.
Not fancy ones — just notes, with doodles and stickers and silly jokes.
And at the end of each one, I write the same line:
“You’re my sunshine. Always.”
Because now I know:
She remembers.
And maybe someday, when she’s older — when the world feels loud or lonely — she’ll hear those words in her heart and feel the warmth they carry.
And maybe that will be enough to remind her who she is.
And how deeply she is loved.
💌 Want to write something your grandkids will remember forever?
We created a free printable to help you do just that.
It’s called Letters to My Grandkids — a sweet and simple way to share what matters most.
