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

Makeup smudged. Hair pinned up. A cheap costume hanging off my shoulders.

On the counter sat a small glass award with my name etched on it.

Not Broadway.

Not huge.

But mine.

I dug in my bag and pulled out a folded, fragile letter.

Same creases. Same blue ink. Soft from being opened too many times.

I laid it down next to the award.

“Hey, Grandma,” I said softly.

“We did it.”

My mouth wobbled.

“I get it now,” I told her handwriting. “The ‘no’ to the car. The beat-up shoes.

The lie.”

I touched the line near the bottom with my fingertip.

“You were right,” I whispered. “I wasn’t.”

I took a deep breath.

The room stayed the same.

But something in me loosened.

Somewhere out there, my parents are probably still alive.

I’ve never called.

They’ve never written.

Sometimes I type their names into the search bar, stare at the blinking cursor, then close the laptop and run lines instead.

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