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

We had rituals.

Sunday tea with too much sugar. Card games where she conveniently forgot the rules when I started losing. Library trips where she pretended to browse for herself and somehow always ended up beside me in the kids’ section.

At night, she read aloud even after I could have read on my own.

Sometimes she nodded off mid-chapter. I’d gently take the book from her hands, mark the page, and tuck a blanket around her shoulders.

“Role reversal,” I’d whisper.

“Don’t get smart,” she’d mumble without opening her eyes.

It wasn’t perfect.

But it was ours.

Then I turned fifteen and decided it wasn’t enough.

Everything changed when the parking lot did.

Suddenly, status was measured in cars. Who drove. Who climbed out of something shiny. Who still had bus-pass ink smudged on their fingers.

I was firmly in the last group.

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