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 remembered the rainy day they told me my parents were gone. The way adults spoke in careful, hushed tones. A social worker explaining there had been a “bad car accident.”

“Instant,” she’d said. “They didn’t feel a thing.”

I remember staring at a stain on the carpet instead of her face.

Then my grandmother appeared.

Her house felt like a different planet.

Tiny. Warm. A gray bun pulled tight at the nape of her neck. A brown coat that smelled like cold air and laundry soap. She knelt down until we were eye level.

“Hey, bug,” she said. “You ready to come home with me?”

“Where’s home?” I asked.

“With me,” she said. “That’s all that matters.”

That first night, she made pancakes for dinner.

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