At the age of 17, I experienced the loss of my grandpa, a moment that remains vivid in my memory. I had just returned home from school when my mother, who typically worked night shifts and seldom had time to talk with us, gathered me and my two sisters for an unusual family meeting. As she took a deep breath, I knew something was wrong.My grandpa passed away at 82, and fortunately, he did not suffer. He remained active and engaged in his passion for vintage cars. He often took me to car shows, which sparked my own love for engines. His influence on my life was profound, eventually leading me to pursue a career in engineering. Even though my grandpa could not afford a collection of vintage cars like some of his friends, he owned a single vehicle that he meticulously cared for. Every weekend, I would visit him to help with the car, creating some of my fondest memories. Whether it was spilling oil or watching him accidentally scratch the red paint of his Chevy Bel Air,

our time together was always filled with joy. He even filled the ashtray with candy for me, telling me to stick to sweets instead of smoking. Each weekend, I eagerly climbed into the car, opened the ashtray to grab some candy, and then helped my grandpa with whatever needed to be done. My sisters never showed interest in joining us, preferring to spend time with our cousins. But I didn’t mind—I cherished every moment with Grandpa.When my mother broke the news of his passing, I was devastated. He was my closest friend, even during my teenage years. I ran to my room and spent the evening alone, grappling with the loss. The next morning, still in my pajamas, I went downstairs, only to be met with cold stares from my family.