In a cozy little house, not too far from a whispering forest, lived a family. There was a Papa, a Mama, and their little boy, perhaps four years old, named Timmy. And with them lived Timmy's Grandpa.

Grandpa was very old. His hands wobbled a bit, like leaves in a gentle breeze, and his eyes weren't as sharp as they used to be. When he ate, his soup would sometimes slosh, and peas might roll off his spoon onto the tablecloth.

At first, Papa and Mama would sigh a little. But soon, their sighs turned into frowns. "He's making such a mess!" Mama said one evening, looking at a spilled drop of milk.
"And he eats so slowly," Papa added, tapping his fingers on the table.

So, they decided to give Grandpa a small table in the corner of the room, near the warm stove. And instead of his usual nice plate, they gave him his food in a little wooden bowl. It wouldn't break if his shaky hands dropped it, they thought.

Poor Grandpa had to eat all by himself in the corner. He looked very sad, and sometimes a tear would roll down his wrinkly cheek and into his wooden bowl. He missed talking with his family at mealtimes.

Little Timmy watched all of this. He didn't say much, but his bright eyes saw everything. He saw Grandpa eating alone, and he saw the sad look on Grandpa's face.

A few days later, Papa and Mama saw Timmy sitting on the floor. He was very busy with some small pieces of wood and a little toy hammer. Tap, tap, tap went his hammer.
"What are you making, Timmy?" Papa asked with a smile.
Timmy looked up, his face serious. "I'm making a little wooden trough," he said.
"A trough?" Mama asked, puzzled. "What for, sweetie?"
"It's for you and Papa," Timmy explained carefully. "So when you get old, you'll have something to eat your food from, just like Grandpa."

Papa and Mama looked at each other. Their faces turned a little red. They suddenly felt very, very ashamed. They hadn't thought about how their actions looked to their little boy, or how they made Grandpa feel. They understood what their little boy meant. They had not been kind.

Without saying a word, Mama went to the corner and gently took Grandpa by the arm. Papa pulled up a chair for him at the big table, right between himself and Mama.
From that day on, Grandpa always sat at the big table with everyone else. He had his own proper plate again. If he spilled a little soup, no one frowned. Mama would just wipe it up with a smile, and Papa would tell a cheerful story.

And little Timmy was happy to see Grandpa smiling again at the dinner table, sharing stories and laughter with the whole family.

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