Nobody knew where the stories came from.
Attendance remained mandatory.
Every Sunday the family gathered.
Not because of tradition.
Not because of schedules.
Mostly because Grandpa had started talking.
And once Grandpa started talking, events tended to happen.
Grandma usually sat beside him.
Knitting.
Smiling.
Occasionally correcting history.
This was necessary.
Grandpa’s relationship with accuracy was creative.
The children arrived early.
The dog arrived earlier.
The cat pretended not to care.
This deception fooled nobody.
Even the pigeons appeared.
Nobody remembered inviting them.
One afternoon Grandpa cleared his throat.
The room immediately became quieter.
The youngest child leaned forward.
The dog sat upright.
The cat opened one eye.
Grandpa nodded.
“I once defeated a tiger using a loaf of bread.”
The children gasped.
The dog seemed impressed.
Grandma continued knitting.
“What actually happened,” she said, “was that you dropped lunch.”
Grandpa ignored this.
“The tiger was enormous.”
“It was a kitten.”
“An enormous kitten.”
The family accepted this compromise.
Another week Grandpa announced:
“When I was young, I invented shadows.”
The grandchildren exchanged glances.
This sounded unlikely.
Grandma sighed.
“You stood in front of a lamp.”
“Exactly,” said Grandpa.
“The prototype.”
The children wrote this down.
Nobody knew why.
By now Grandpa’s stories had become a family institution.
There were lectures.
Demonstrations.
Charts.
Once there had been a puppet show explaining why socks disappear.
The conclusion involved international sock migration.
Evidence remained limited.
Then one evening Grandpa stood dramatically.
This usually indicated danger.
Or entertainment.
Sometimes both.
“I have a riddle.”
The room froze.
Grandpa’s riddles were famous.
Mostly because nobody ever solved them.
“What gets larger the more of it you remove?”
The children thought.
The dog thought.
One pigeon appeared to think.
Even the cat seemed mildly interested.
Minutes passed.
Nobody knew.
Finally Grandpa smiled.
“A hole.”
The children groaned.
The dog wagged.
The pigeons appeared satisfied.
Grandma nodded.
“That one is actually correct.”
This surprised everyone.
Including Grandpa.
The room became silent.
Grandpa blinked.
Grandma blinked.
The children blinked.
Then Grandpa smiled proudly.
“You see?”
He folded his arms.
“Even my mistakes eventually become wisdom.”
Grandma laughed so hard she nearly dropped her knitting.
The children laughed.
The dog barked.
The pigeons flapped.
Even the cat purred.
And from that day forward, nobody could remember whether they gathered for the stories…
Or simply to watch Grandma fact-check them.
🐦🐕🐈🧶♥️
Livora Gracely 
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