Grandpa gripped my hand as I leaned over his hospital bed. There wasn’t much time. With the back of his other hand, he swept aside his oxygen mask and struggled to speak. “Remember: Love!” he said. His grip loosened. He was gone, and I didn’t understand. Until now.
Ninety years earlier in south Wales, a six-year-old boy died. The death rippled through three generations and across the ocean to Prince Edward Island. In its wake were sadness, longing and doubt. Love had a limited meaning and we had forgotten why. The secret was buried in Wales, and is now set free.
This is a story about the meaning of unconditional love.
