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

“Role reversal,” I’d whisper.

“Don’t get smart,” she’d mumble, eyes still closed.

It wasn’t perfect, but it was ours.

And then I turned 15 and decided it wasn’t enough.

Everything changed when the parking lot did.

Suddenly, status at school was measured in cars.

Who drove. Who got dropped off.

Who climbed out of something shiny and who had bus pass ink smudged on their fingers.

I was firmly in the last group.

“Why don’t you just ask her?” my friend Leah said. “My parents helped me get one.”

“Because my grandma counts every grape she puts in the cart,” I said. “She’s not exactly ‘car money’ kind of person.”

Still, the jealousy ate at me.

So one night, I tried.

Grandma sat at the kitchen table, shuffling bills into piles.

Her readers were halfway down her nose. The good mug—chipped at the rim, flowers fading—sat beside her.

“Grandma?”

“Mm?” she answered.

She snorted. “You think you need a car.”

“I do,” I said.

“Everyone at school drives. I’m always begging for rides. I could get a job if I had one.

I could help.”

Continue reading…