My Grandma Raised Me Alone After I Became an Orphan – Three Days After Her Death, I Learned She Lied to Me My Entire Life

I was 32 the day I found out I wasn’t really an orphan. But at that point, I’d already buried three people: my mom, my dad, and then my grandma. At least, that’s how I thought it went.

The letter showed up three days after her funeral.

Same old kitchen table.

Same ugly vinyl. Same empty chair with her cardigan still hanging off the back. The house smelled like dust and faint cinnamon, like it was trying to remember her.

The envelope had my name on it in her handwriting.

I stared at it for a full minute.

“Nope,” I muttered.

“Absolutely not.”

Then I made tea I didn’t want because that’s what she would’ve done. Kettle on, two mugs out of habit, even though one of us was very much dead.

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