My grandfather raised me by himself after my parents passed away. Just two weeks after his funeral, I discovered that he had been lying to me my entire life.

I hated that sentence more than anything. While other girls wore trendy clothes, I wore hand-me-downs. My friends had sleek new phones, and mine was an ancient brick that barely charged.

It filled me with a selfish kind of anger—one that made me cry into my pillow at night. I hated myself for resenting him, but I still couldn’t stop. He told me I could be anything I wanted, but the promise started to feel impossible.

Then Grandpa got sick, and that anger turned into fear.

The man who had carried both of our lives on his shoulders could no longer climb the stairs without gasping for breath. We couldn’t afford a nurse or caregiver (of course, we couldn’t, we couldn’t afford anything), so I took care of him alone.