My grandmother’s death hit me harder than I ever expected. She had raised my mother in that little house on the hill surrounded by hydrangeas, and she’d raised me in her own way—teaching me how to bake lavender cookies, how to sew a button, how to stand up straight even when life tries to fold you in half. When she died at ninety-two, it felt like losing the last living witness to who I’d been before adulthood tumbled in.
Three days after the funeral, I went back to her house to gather her things. I stood there holding her afghan blanket, still smelling faintly of lavender soap, and felt a lump rising in my throat.
“We need the money, not your memories,” he said, arms crossed, his tone more impatient than grieving.
The words landed like a slap. The house wasn’t even cold from her absence, and already he was talking about listing it. Something about his urgency scraped at me, a wrongness I couldn’t name yet.
I ignored his pressure the best I could, but his agitation grew louder, sharper, strangely emotional for a man who hadn’t spent much time with her. He kept glancing at the stairs like the house itself owed him something.
Then, as I was preparing to leave, Grandma’s neighbor, Mrs. Callahan, appeared at the gate. A quiet woman, never one for gossip—and yet there she was, eyes darting, voice lowered.
Continue reading…
