Telha
A small corner of a wrapped package peeked out from beneath Grandma’s body. Carefully, I retrieved it and slipped it into my purse, hoping no one noticed.
A wave of guilt washed over me—I felt as though I was betraying my mom—but the need to protect Grandma’s memory outweighed everything else.
Later that night, alone in my room, I unwrapped the package, bracing myself for a revelation I wasn’t sure I was ready for.
Grandma had been my anchor, my greatest supporter, and my best friend.
Her death left an emptiness I couldn’t imagine ever filling. As I looked at her peaceful face in the coffin, her hair styled just the way she liked, my heart shattered.
The thought of never seeing her again felt unbearable.
The funeral home was packed with neighbors and friends. They came to pay their respects to the woman who had touched so many lives.
Through my tears, I noticed my mother standing in the corner of the room.
She was glued to her phone, her demeanor cold and detached, as though she were bidding farewell to a stranger. I knew she and Grandma had a rocky relationship, but her indifference to her own mother’s death was shocking.
At one point, while I spoke with Mrs. Anderson—who reminded me how much Grandma had adored me—I caught sight of my mother placing something into the coffin. It was subtle, but deliberate. Grandma had never mentioned any final wishes, so I had no idea what my mother could have placed there.
Curiosity gnawed at me. Once everyone had left, I cautiously reached into the coffin and retrieved a small box wrapped in a faded blue handkerchief from beneath Grandma’s still form.
“I’m sorry, Grandma,” I whispered, gently touching her cold hand one last time.
Later that evening, I sat in Grandma’s rocking chair, staring at the package. “What are you hiding, Mom?” I muttered, carefully untying the frayed string. Inside were letters, each one handwritten by Grandma and addressed to my mom.
The words in those letters shook me to my core. Grandma had written that she knew the truth—she knew my mother had been stealing her money to feed her gambling addiction. In the final letter, Grandma revealed that she had decided to leave everything to me: the house, her belongings, and the savings she had worked so hard to accumulate over the years.
I froze. The weight of this truth was unbearable. Suddenly, my mother’s behavior—the extravagant Christmas gifts, the constant “emergencies” that required borrowing my credit card, and her push to gain power of attorney—took on a sinister meaning.
The next morning, I called my mom and asked her to meet me at the coffee shop on the corner.
When she arrived, she greeted me with a smile and reached for my hand, but I pulled back. Without a word, I placed the stack of letters on the table in front of her.
“If you try to take what Grandma left me, the truth will come out,” I said firmly.
She opened her mouth to respond, but I stood and walked away. Some secrets, I realized, refuse to stay buried.
