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

My heart stuttered.

Now I sat at the table, letter open in front of me, hands shaking.

The first part was pure Grandma.

Love. Jokes.

By the time you read this, she’d written, I’m gone and you’re probably wondering what to do.

I huffed out a laugh that sounded like a sob. Of course, she knew what I was thinking.

But there are things I never told you, she wrote.

I thought I was protecting you. Now you’re old enough to decide if you agree.

Go to my closet. Top shelf.

Behind the blue shoebox.

I actually looked up, half expecting her to appear in the doorway, telling me to hurry up.

Of course, she didn’t.

Her room still smelled like powder and soap. I dragged a chair over, climbed up, and shoved aside a beat-up blue shoebox full of old photos.

Behind it was a thick folder with my name on it.

Back at the table, I opened it and forgot how to breathe.

Savings accounts.

A college fund.

A small life insurance policy.

Numbers that didn’t match the patched shoes and watered-down soap.

A sticky note on one page: For your education and your first apartment. And maybe a small, sensible car if I’m not there to argue with you.

I wiped my eyes and grabbed the letter again.

We were never rich, she wrote.

But we were not as poor as you thought. Every “no” I said to junk was a “yes” I saved for your future.

Then came the part that made my skin go cold.

There is one more thing, she wrote. This is the part I fear you’ll hate me for.

You were six when they told you your parents died in a car crash.

They did not.

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