MY LATE GRANDFATHER STILL COMES HOME FOR HIS FAVOURITE MEAL 5 YEARS AFTER HIS DEATH

MY LATE GRANDFATHER STILL COMES HOME FOR HIS FAVOURITE MEAL EVERY NIGHT ,5 YEARS AFTER HIS DEATH.

My Grandmother Still Feeds My Late Grandfather Every Night

I don’t even know how to begin this confession because part of me is scared to even write it. But something strange has been happening in our home for years, and no one in the family seems to question it anymore — except me.

My grandmother is 96 years old. Every month without fail, she buys a 10kg packet of chicken pieces — thighs only. She insists that thighs taste better, juicier, and that no other part of the chicken compares. Once she gets home, she carefully divides them into small packets and stores them neatly in a fridge that no one in the house is allowed to touch. She says it’s “her fridge.”

Every night before she goes to bed, she takes out one packet and places it on the zinc to defrost. In the morning, the chicken is gone. The plastic packet is still there, empty, as if someone carefully removed the meat during the night.

At first, I thought maybe she was sneaking out at night and cooking them for herself. But my grandmother barely walks now. Her knees are weak, and she struggles to even move from her bed to the kitchen without help. Yet somehow, every morning, the chicken is gone — like it vanished into thin air.

Here’s the part that gives me chills: my grandfather passed away five years ago. And the chicken thighs were his favourite part. He used to say a meal without thighs wasn’t complete. Every Sunday he’d sit at the table, waiting for my grandmother to dish up his plate first — always with two big thighs.

After he died, my grandmother changed. She stopped talking much, started spending long hours sitting by the window at night. But what’s strange is that she never stopped buying the thighs. She never said it out loud, but it’s like she still cooks — or prepares — for him.

Some people in our area, especially those who go out drinking at night, have claimed to see my grandfather sitting by our gate. They say he looks exactly the same — same blue work jacket, same quiet face — like he’s guarding the house. Some even swear they’ve greeted him, only to realize in the morning that he’s been dead for years.

When we tell my grandmother about it, she gets angry. She says people who see him are drunk, hallucinating, or maybe even the ones responsible for his death. But deep down, I can’t shake the feeling that she knows something we don’t.

Every time I hear the fridge door open late at night, I freeze. I want to believe it’s just her… but then I remember how she can barely walk, how the next day she wakes up as if nothing happened — calm, collected, and with another empty plastic packet on the zinc.

Sometimes, when I pass by the gate early in the morning, I get this strong smell of cooked chicken, mixed with that familiar cologne my grandfather used to wear. It’s faint, but it’s there — like a reminder that maybe, just maybe, love doesn’t end with death.

Maybe my grandmother is still feeding him.

And maybe… he’s still coming home every night.