My grandson Mason is usually the sweetest, calmest little boy you could ever meet. He is four years old now, and he has this quiet way of playing with his wooden trucks on my rug.

But for the last three months, every single time he walked into my living room, he would look at the mantel and start screaming.

It was not a normal toddler tantrum or a whiny cry. It was a high, terrified shriek that made me drop whatever I was holding. He would scramble backward, throwing his little hands over his face, and hide behind my green armchair until I took the framed photo down and hid it in a drawer.

The photo was a simple portrait of my sister, Carol. She was smiling, wearing a blue floral blouse, with her silver hair styled in the soft curls she always favored. Carol was my best friend, and we raised our children just three doors down from each other. She passed away six years ago, back in the spring of 2020, and it still feels like a quiet piece of my heart is missing.

Mason never met Carol. He was not even born when she passed, so there was no reason for him to have any memory of her. For weeks, I tried to convince myself it was just a strange toddler phase. Children get funny ideas about faces in pictures sometimes, and I figured the vintage frame or the lighting in my hallway was just playing tricks on his little eyes.

But it only ever happened with that one photo. He could look at pictures of his grandfather, or old snapshots of his mother when she was a baby, and he would smile and point.

But the moment Carol’s face came into view, his little face would turn completely pale.

Last night, his mother, Jessie, had to work a late shift at the hospital, so Mason stayed with me. We had our usual evening of grilled cheese and apple slices, and then I gave him a warm bath. He was dressed in his dinosaur pajamas, smelling of baby shampoo, when he climbed up onto my lap to read a story.

The living room was quiet, lit only by the soft glow of the table lamp. I looked over at the mantel, where I had placed Carol’s photo back in its usual spot earlier that afternoon. I felt a gentle tug in my chest, a need to understand what was happening in my grandson’s sweet head.

I reached over and picked up the silver frame, holding it gently so he could see it. “Baby,” I whispered, keeping my voice as soft and calm as I could, “why does Grandma Carol scare you so much?”