I watched my mother carefully slide an unidentified gift inside the casket at my grandmother’s burial. When I took it later out of interest, I never imagined it would expose terrible truths that would follow me always.
Though for me it feels like missing stairs in the dark, some say loss comes in waves. Not only family; my grandma Catherine was my universe, my buddy. She enveloped me in hugs that felt like returning home and made me feel like the most valuable thing on Earth. Last week, standing next to her tomb, I felt free, like learning to breathe with just half a lung. Grandma’s quiet face was softly shadowed by the dim lighting of the funeral home. Someone had put her preferred pearl necklace around her neck, and her silver hair was set just how she always liked it.
As memories poured back, my fingertips felt the smooth coffin wood. We had been sitting in her kitchen drinking tea and laughing only last month as she showed me her secret sugar cookie recipe.
“Emerald, honey, you know she is now looking over you.” Our next-door neighbor Mrs. Anderson laid a wrinkled hand on my shoulder. Red-rimmed behind her glasses, were her eyes. “Your grandmother never stopped talking about her priceless grandchild.” I cleaned a stray rip off. “Remember her wonderful apple pie making technique? From the stench, the entire neighborhood would know it was Sunday.
Oh, those pies are great! Pleased as could be, she would send you over slices for us. ‘Emerald assisted with this one,’ she would invariably remark. She uses the cinnamon with just the right touch.
“I tried making one last week,” I said, voice catching. “It changed differently. I took up the phone to ask her what I had done wrong, and then the heart attack happened; the ambulance showed up and—”
Oh, honey. Mrs. Anderson drew me tightly in an embrace. “She understood your great love for her.” What counts is that. And consider all of these individuals here; she affected countless lives. The funeral house was packed, with neighbors and friends whispering stories in low tones. My mother Victoria was standing off to the side staring at her phone. All day she had not shed a tear.
I watched my mother approach the casket as Mrs. Anderson and I were speaking. She looked about warily then leaned over it, her manicured fingers sliding something inside. It resembled a little parcel.
Her heels clicked gently on the hardwood floor as she straightened, her gaze darting about the room before she left. “Did you observe that?” I murmured, my heart pounding abruptly.
“See what, sweetheart?,”
“My mum just…,” I stopped, watching my mother vanish into the ladies’ room. ” Nothing.” I suppose just the grief playing games.
But the discomfort rested in my gut like a cold stone. In years, Mom and Grandma had seldom spoken. And my grandma would not have asked for anything to be placed in her casket without my knowing either.
There seemed to be something strange. As the final mourners left the funeral home, evening shadows stretched out across its windows. The air smelled strongly of lilies and flowers, mixed with the residual aroma of departing visitors.
Claiming a migraine, my mother had departed an hour ago, but her previous actions continued niggling at me like a splinter under my skin.
“Ms. Emerald??” Mr. Peters the funeral director showed up at my elbow. His kind demeanor made me think of my grandfather, who we had lost five years previously. Take all the time you need. I will be at my office anytime you are ready.
Thank you. Mr., Peters. I waited until his footsteps disappeared before going back to face Grandma’s casket. The place seemed different now. Heavier, bursting with unsaid words and secret facts.
My pulse felt shockingly loud in the silence. I drew in closer to study Grandma’s calm face’s every feature.
There, just seen under the fold of her preferred blue dress—the one she had worn to my college graduation—was the corner of something wrapped in blue fabric.
I battled remorse, divided between respect of Grandma’s desires and allegiance to my mother. Still, my need to preserve Grandma’s heritage took front stage.
My hands shook as I gently reached in, took out the box, then dropped it into my handbag. I said, “I’m sorry, Grandma,” caressing her chilly hand one more time. Her wedding ring caught the brightness, a last glitter of the warmth she had always held.
But here something is not right. Remember? You helped me to remember to rely on my intuition. You always said that truth counts more than comfort.
Back home, I sat in Grandma’s old reading chair—the one she had demanded I grab when she moved to the smaller apartment last year. Sitting in my lap, the present was wrapped in a recognizable blue handkerchief.
I identified the exquisite “C” needlework in the corner. Years ago, I saw Grandma sew it while she related stories about her early years. “What secrets are you holding, Mom?” I muttered, gently untying the aged thread. At the scene that followed, my stomach turned over.
Inside were letters, hundreds of them, each carrying the name of Grandma in her unique handwriting. The paper was yellowed at the margins; some crumpled from regular handling.The first letter came from three years past. The paper was neat, like it had been read many times:
‘Victoria,
I know what you did.
Did you suppose I would not find the missing money? I would not check my accounts? Month after month, I saw minute quantities vanish. I convinced myself initially that there must be some error. That my own daughter would not pilfer from me. But we both know the truth; do we not?
You have to give up gambling. You are undermining this family and yourself. You keep lying to my face while consuming more, even though I have attempted to assist you comprehend. Remember last Christmas when you said you would have changed? When you pledged to get assistance and started to cry? Two weeks later another $5,000 vanished.
I’m not writing to humiliate you here. Writing is helping me since seeing you spiral like this hurts.
Victoria, kindly. Let me assist you… sincerely assist you this time.
Mom’s hands trembled as I went over letter after letter. Every one of them exposed more of the tale I had never heard, creating a picture of treachery that made my tummy flip over.
The years stretch out, the tone changing from worry to wrath to resignation.
One letter cited a family gathering when Mom had promised she was no longer gambling.
That evening, I recalled she had appeared so real, tears running down her face as she hugged Grandma. I now questioned if those tears were genuine or merely another show. Grandma’s last letter caused me to stop breathing:
“Queen Victoria,
You have chosen well. I have made my. Everything I own will go to Emerald; the one person I have seen demonstrate true love—not merely treated me as a personal bank. Though you might believe you have got away with it all, I guarantee you have not. The truth shows itself constantly.
Remember when Emerald was small and you accused me of showing preferences? I loved you less than I loved her, you said. Actually, I loved you both differently yet equally. She loved me back without restrictions, without asking anything in return, so different.
I am in love with you still. Always loved you. I can not trust you, though.
MomAs I opened the last letter, my hands started to shake. This one came from my mother to Grandma, dated barely two days ago following Grandma’s passing. Sharp, aggressive strokes across the paper revealed the handwriting.
‘Mom,
okay. You succeed. I’ll confess it. I picked the money. I demanded it. You never known what it was like to experience that surge, that yearning. Yet guess what? Your brilliant little scheme is useless. Emerald loved me. She will provide for anything I ask for. Considering her fortune. Since she loves me. I still win thus at last.
Perhaps you could quit attempting to govern everyone from beyond the grave now. Good bye.
Victoria, that night I slept nowhere. I moved around my flat, memories realigning with this new reality.
The Christmas presents that appeared always overly costly. Mom had requested to “borrow” my credit card for emergencies at certain occasions. All those informal talks regarding Grandma’s money, passing for daughter’s worry.
One day she had questioned Mom about acquiring power of attorney. You know how forgetful she is becoming?
“She seems fine to me,” I said.
“Just planning ahead, darling.” We have to guard her resources.
Driven just by avarice, my mother had deceived both my grandma and now me. My head was clear but my eyes burned by dawn. I gave her a call, speaking steadily:
“Mom? Would be great to meet for coffee? I have something crucial I have to give you.
“What is it, sweetheart? ” Her voice was honey-sweet, gently worried. Are you alright? You sound weary.
“I’m alright. It concerns Grandma. She left for you a parcel. Said I should hand it to you “when the time was right.” “Oh!”; She sounded so eager, which made me cringe. Naturally, sweetheart. Where ought we to get together?
“The coffee shop on Mill Street? The silent one?
“Good.” Emerald, you are such a thoughtful daughter. So unlike my relationship with my mother.
Her comments were ironically a knife to my heart. “See you at two, Mom,” said After that, I hanged. As my mother walked into the coffee shop that day, the bell above the door rang and her eyes saw my handbag on the table right away.
She was sporting her beloved red jacket, the one she usually wore to crucial conferences.
She took a seat and reached for my hand across the old hardwood floor. You seem worn out, dear. On you, this has all been rather difficult. Has it not? You and your grandmother were quite close.
I merely nodded and laid a wrapped item on the table. Inside were blank papers with simply two letters on top: one Grandma’s “I know what you did,” one I had penned myself. Her immaculate nails breaking the seal on the first envelope, she said, “What’s this?” When she opened the second one, I saw the color totally go from her face as her fingers gripped the paper so tightly it crumpled at the margins.
In my letter, I was straightforward:
mother,
I have the remainder of the letters. Everyone will know the truth if you ever try to control me or pursue what Grandma left behind. In all of it.
Emerald: “Emerald, honey, I—\”
Rising before her to see years of lies crumble in her tears, I watched. ” Mom, I love you. That does not imply you are able to control me though. You turned me off. always.
I turned around and rushed out, leaving her alone bearing the weight of her falsehoods and the ghost of Grandma’s truth. No matter how hard you try, I came to see certain falsehoods cannot remain buried permanently.
Though it has been dramatized for artistic goals, this work is motivated by actual events and individuals. Names, personalities, and specifics have been altered to honor privacy and strengthen the story. Any likeness to real people, alive or dead, or genuine events is entirely accidental and not meant by the author.
The author and publisher are not accountable for any misinterpretation; they neither assert any claims to the veracity of events or the character representation. This narrative is presented “as is,” hence any comments spoken are those of the characters and do not reflect the thoughts of the author or publisher.
