Grandpa, Is That You?

At a young age, we’re deceived into believing the unbelievable: $1 appears under our pillow every time we lose a tooth, a bunny lays absurdly detailed eggs around our backyard, and a big man in a red outfit somehow manages to shimmy down our chimney every December 24.

Parents of Harry Potter-loving, fairy-believing children have gone to the ends of the earth to keep this magic alive for as long as possible — but my mom was never one of them.

I lost my first tooth in a McDonald’s when I was 5. I didn’t wake up to a crisp dollar bill, just bloody gums. The Easter Bunny didn’t visit my yard. And the person hiding presents under the tree every year looked suspiciously like my mother.

I never had an answer to the dreaded question: “When did you stop believing in Santa?” I don’t think I ever did buy into the myth.

My mom is a simple woman. She likes routine. She likes mahjong. She loves cooking for my brother and me. She likes sushi, yoga, and Chinese dramas. She hates animals and when I don’t do the dishes. If science can’t explain it, if something is not in front of her very eyes, it simply isn’t true. I have my mom all figured out. Or so I thought.

I was in my New York City bedroom last summer when I saw Mom pouring water into a bowl and placing a piece of bread on a plate for a white-spotted bird on the balcony that sat between my mother’s bedroom window and mine.

I was shocked, not because of the selfless act, but because I thought I knew my mother well. In a city overcrowded by pigeons, my mother — she who hates animals — chose to feed one. The same mother who can’t pet my cousin’s German shepherd and doesn’t “aw” at pictures of sleepy kittens. That mother.

Naturally, I had to ask her why she was feeding it. “I think that bird is Grandpa,” she said. “I think he came to watch over me.”

My grandpa — her father — passed away about five years ago. Since then, my mom has kept a strong front and a smiling face. She stuck to her routine. She cooked for us. She ate soup dumplings, took Zumba classes, sang Chinese songs, and scolded me to take out the trash.

But last summer, Mom cared for the white-spotted pigeon that showed up on our windowsill. There was the frequent water refill and daily bread replacement.

For nearly five days, before Mom found the pigeon lifeless in our backyard, it fluttered back and forth, resting and peering into the windows of my mother’s bedroom and mine. Could this be my grandpa?

I couldn’t believe in reincarnation.

How could I? I was raised by a woman who believed in simplicity — no superstitions and no supernatural nonsense. Yet, when I took a closer look at the pigeon, it was clear: This was my grandfather, with a red tracking tag on his left leg. He must have escaped from somewhere to spend his last days in this life watching over us.

How else could I explain him loitering on our windows for almost a week? It must

be Grandpa. How else could I explain my mom’s instant connection to the bird? It’s got to be my grandpa. It has to be.

And how could I explain to my mom that my grandfather was long gone? I couldn’t bring myself to do that.

If this unexpected encounter was enough to break my mother’s stubborn routine of shaming believers of the supernatural, it was enough to convince me that the pigeon on my windowsill was my grandfather. And so began my long-overdue start of believing the unbelievable.

Maybe my mom will believe in Santa one day, too.

Cathy Ching is an editorial assistant for Globe

Magazine and a journalism student at Northeastern University. Send comments to magazine@ globe.com.