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

The next day, I slept over at a friend’s. After that, I came home from school and the house was too quiet.

No radio. No humming.

No clatter in the kitchen.

“Grandma?” I called.

Nothing.

Her bedroom door was half open.

She was lying on top of the covers, work clothes still on, shoes still tied.

Her hand was cool when I touched it.

“Grandma?” I whispered.

She didn’t move.

People said “heart attack,” and “quick,” and “she didn’t feel a thing.”

I felt everything.

The funeral was a blur. Hugs. Casseroles.

“She was so proud of you” on repeat.

After everyone left, the house felt hollow.

Her cardigan drooped on the chair. Her slippers sat by the bed. Her smell lingered faintly in the hallway.

I wandered from room to room, waiting for her to yell at me for tracking in mud.

No one yelled.

Three days later, the mailman showed up with a certified letter.

“Sorry for your loss,” he said, handing me the little electronic pad to sign.

The envelope had my name on it.

In her handwriting.

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