I never imagined Grandma Catherine’s funeral would reveal a secret that would change everything. She was my world, my safe place, the warm hug I always came home to. Standing by her casket last week, her face framed in soft shadows, I noticed my mother slipping a small package into the folds of Grandma’s dress.
That night, the unease gnawed at me. After everyone left, I returned to the casket. Hidden beneath her favorite blue dress was the package: a stack of letters, yellowed with time, all addressed to my mother.
“Victoria,
I know what you did.
Did you think I wouldn’t notice the missing money? I tried to believe my own daughter wouldn’t steal from me. I’ve begged you to stop gambling. I can’t trust you anymore.
Everything I own will go to Emerald. The one who loves me without asking for anything in return.”
I confronted my mother the next day, her eager smile turning to panic as I placed the letters before her.
“I love you, Mom,” I whispered, “but you’ll never control me.”
Some secrets refuse to stay buried.
