# The Retropa Story: For the Grown-ups Who Loved You | Retropa

> A comic without words: a handheld wrapped in newspaper, a flashlight under the blanket, Grandpa's drawer of AA batteries, one arcade token each, a car slowing under the streetlights, and years later, a child pretending to sleep.

URL: https://retropa.com/story/  
Other languages: [简体中文](https://retropa.com/zh-Hans/story/index.md) · [日本語](https://retropa.com/ja/story/index.md)

## The Retropa story

![A family of three: Dad and Mom kneel on either side of their son, who holds up a gray handheld game console. All three are smiling.](https://retropa.com/media/story/en/family.webp)

1. Late at night, Dad sits alone on the sofa playing a gray handheld, tongue poking out, an opened box and a newspaper beside him; outside the window, a crescent moon hangs in the dark sky. The next morning, the boy holds out his hands with his eyes shut, and Dad crouches to put a little package wrapped in newspaper into them while Mom smiles from the doorway. The boy tears the paper open, eyes shining: it is the handheld. He hugs it to his chest, beaming, while Dad yawns hugely behind him and Mom laughs into her hand.
2. In the evening, Mom holds up a kitchen timer, and the boy, clutching the handheld, pouts. That night, a lump under the blanket on his bed glows from a flashlight inside. Mom opens the door a crack and sees it. She smiles, puts a finger to her lips and quietly closes the door.
3. Grandpa holds the handheld at arm's length, squinting, while the boy explains. The boy opens the battery cover to show him the two AA batteries inside, and Grandpa strokes his chin and nods very seriously, as if learning it by heart. On another visit, Grandpa proudly pulls open a drawer packed full of AA batteries. The boy throws his arms around him, and Grandpa laughs and pats his head.
4. After school, older kids crowd the arcade machines; the boy stands alone by the door with a single token in his palm. His best friend, a band-aid across his nose, pops up beside him and holds up a token of his own. The two stand side by side on a wooden crate, one joystick each, shouting as they mash the buttons. At sunset they walk home shoulder to shoulder, each holding half of a twin ice pop.
5. Driving home at night, Dad at the wheel, the boy in the back seat squints at the handheld: its screen has no light of its own, and it is too dark to see. In the rearview mirror, Dad's eyes glance back at him. The little car rolls slowly under an orange streetlight; the light pours in through the back window, the screen lights up and the boy pumps his fist. At home, Dad carries him up the stairs, and the boy, pretending to be asleep on his shoulder, peeks with one eye and smiles.
6. Mom marks the boy's height on a door frame lined with pencil marks. At fifteen, wearing headphones, he walks past an open drawer with the handheld still lying in it. On moving day, the handheld sits at the bottom of a cardboard box. At twenty-two, he leaves with a suitcase while Dad and a gray-haired Mom wave from the door.
7. Stuck and frowning, the boy holds the handheld out to Dad, who smiles and reaches for it. Thirty years later, on the same yellow sofa, a gray-haired Dad squints and holds his phone out to his grown son, who smiles and reaches for it. The son spreads two fingers on the screen to make everything bigger. Dad can see it now and beams, and his son sits beside him with an arm around his shoulders.
8. Years later, he is the one driving, and his daughter plays a game on a phone in the back seat, the screen lighting her face. Near home, she lowers the phone and squeezes her eyes shut, eyelashes fluttering: she is pretending. In the rearview mirror, his eyes glance back at her and crinkle into a smile. He carries her up the stairs, and on his shoulder she peeks with one eye and smiles.

“To the grown‑ups who loved you, and to the grown‑up you have become. Time moves on; warmth and childhood stay.”

— Retropa