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

“Pancakes are for emergencies,” she said, flipping one that came out shaped like a lopsided blob. “And this counts.”

I laughed, even though my throat hurt.

That’s how we began.

Life with her was small and busy.

She worked mornings at the laundromat. Cleaned offices at night. Hemmed jeans at the kitchen table on weekends while I did homework. Her cardigans grew shiny at the elbows. The soles of her shoes were held together with more duct tape than rubber. At the grocery store, she checked every price tag and sometimes sighed before putting things back.

But my field trips were always paid for.

I had birthday cakes with my name written in frosting. Picture-day money tucked into envelopes. Fresh notebooks and sharpened pencils at the start of every school year.

People at church smiled and said, “You two are like mother and daughter.”

“She’s my girl,” my grandmother would say. “That’s all.”

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