Grief doesn’t always travel in waves. It was like falling down stairs in the dark—sudden, scary, and made me breathless. Losing my grandmother Catherine was more than losing family; she was my greatest friend, my mentor, and my rock. I felt like someone had let me free and I was floating without a plan as I stood by her casket.
The funeral home was softly lit, and shadows moved slowly across Grandma’s peaceful face. She had meticulously styled her silver hair and was wearing her favorite pearl necklace, which I had seen her polish many times before big events. We had only been together for a few weeks before this, in her kitchen, where we drank tea and laughed as she told me the “secret” to her sugar cookies: a little amount of nutmeg, just enough to whisper, not yell. She was gone now, and I held on to those memories as if they could keep me alive.
People who lived nearby and friends moved around me, softly offering their sympathies. Mrs. Anderson, who had lived next door for a long time, put her old hand on my shoulder. “Your grandmother never stopped talking about you, Emerald,” she said. “Always boasting and being so proud.” I attempted to grin while I thought about her apple pies, which smelled so good that they filled the whole street. I remembered her winking and saying, “You have the perfect touch with the cinnamon.”
But my mom, Victoria, wasn’t like that. Chilly. Not linked. She didn’t cry. And as I was watching her out of the corner of my eye, something happened that changed the way the air felt. She walked over to the coffin and put a small gift in Grandma’s garments when no one was looking. She moved rapidly and with purpose, and she almost felt horrible. Then she left, and as she walked into the restroom, her heels produced a quiet clicking sound.
My stomach got tight. Mom and Grandma hadn’t talked much in a long time. They hadn’t really come to an agreement. Why would she put something in the casket that no one else could see? I kept telling myself that it was only grief, but the feeling of not knowing stayed with me deep in my chest.
By the time the gathering thinned down and the funeral director left me alone to say farewell, I realized I couldn’t let it go. The room felt heavy and full with things that weren’t there. I leaned really close to Grandma one last time, kissed her chilly hand, and carefully slipped the bundle out from under the fold of her blue dress. She wore that dress to my college graduation. I put it in my purse and said “I’m sorry” in a low voice.
I opened the package at home while sitting in the old reading chair Grandma made me take when she moved. I had seen her sew the “C” on her blue handkerchief many years ago. There were letters within. There were a lot of letters, all from Grandma and all to my mom.
With each letter I read, the ground underneath me moved.
“I know what you did” was the first thing, and it hurt a lot. Grandma told me that some money was gone from her accounts. It started out little, but it grew quickly. She implored my mom to stop playing games and get some treatment. She said that broken promises and tears turned into lies. The tone went from worried to angry, then from angry to sad, and finally from sad to accepting.
Then came the last blow: Grandma changed her will so that I would get everything. She wrote to my mom, “You may think you’ve gotten away with everything, but the truth always comes out.” Emerald loved me no matter what. Not you, but she will take on my ancestry.
When I read those sentences, my heart hurt, but by the time I got to the last page, it was cold. Grandma didn’t send this letter. My mom sent it. I wrote it after Grandma died and the funeral.
“Okay.” You won. I agree. I accepted the cash. But Emerald loves me. She’ll listen to me. Her parents gave her everything. She cares about me. So, in the end, I still win.
The letters were rude and aggressive. They were so full of themselves that it showed in every line.
I stayed up all night putting together the pieces of the moments that finally made sense. For example, the pricey Christmas gifts she shouldn’t have been able to afford. When she said she needed my credit card “just in case.” It was unnerving how many queries Grandma’s money raised, even though they were sometimes masked as worry. She didn’t cry at the funeral, even though she was heartbroken. It was math.
I felt fatigued when I woke up, but I knew what I had to do. I called her and spoke calmly, telling her I had something for her. A gift from Grandma. She quickly consented, but her gorgeous voice made it plain that she was hungry.
That afternoon, she went to the coffee shop in her red blazer, which she only wore on exceptional occasions. She stared straight at my purse. She held my hand and chatted to me in a nice way, acting like she cared about how hard it had been for me to lose someone. I smiled, took out a well wrapped gift, and put it on the table.
She opened it with excitement, but all she found inside were two letters: Grandma’s angry “I know what you did” and one I had written myself.
The sentences I wrote were short. Very sharp. That’s it.
“I have the other letters.” If you ever try to trick me or remove whatever Grandma left me, everyone will know the truth. Everything.
I saw her face shift, the color leave it, and her grip on the paper get tighter, as if squeezing it might change what it said. She stammered and tried to come up with another reason, but I got up before she could finish.
I said, “I love you, Mom,” and my voice was steady. “But you can’t trust me again.”
I left her alone with her lies, her shame, and the ghost of the mother she had betrayed.
You can’t keep some things from coming out. And some betrayals leave scars that are too deep to mend.
