Grief doesn’t always move like waves. It was like falling down stairs in the dark: unexpected, scary, and made me lose my breath. Losing my grandmother Catherine was more than losing family; she had been my best friend, my mentor, and my anchor. I felt like someone had let me free and I was floating without a plan when I stood beside her casket.
The funeral home was softly lit, and shadows slowly moved across Grandma’s peaceful face. She had meticulously styled her silver hair and put on 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 then, in her kitchen, where we drank tea and giggled 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 like they could keep me alive.
People who lived nearby and friends came and went, softly offering their sympathies. Mrs. Anderson, who had lived next door for a long time, squeezed my shoulder with her old hand. She said, “Your grandmother never stopped talking about you, Emerald.” “Always bragging 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 how she would wink and say, “You have the right amount of cinnamon.”
But my mother, Victoria, was not like that. It’s cold. Not linked. She didn’t shed a tear. And while I was watching her out of the corner of my eye, something happened that changed the way the air felt. No one saw her walk over to the coffin and put a small present in Grandma’s garments. She moved rapidly and with a purpose, and she almost felt horrible. After that, she left, and her heels produced a faint clicking sound as she walked into the bathroom.
My stomach got tight. It had been a long time since Mom and Grandma had talked. They hadn’t really worked things out. Why would she put something in the coffin that no one else could see? I convinced myself that it was just grief that was bothering me, but the doubt stayed deep in my chest.
I knew I couldn’t let it go when the gathering thinned away and the funeral director left me alone to say farewell. The space felt heavy and full of things that weren’t obvious. I got very close to Grandma one last time, kissed her cold hand, and carefully slipped the bundle out from under the fold of her blue dress. She wore that dress to my graduation from college. I put it in my handbag and said, “I’m sorry,” in a soft voice.
I opened the package at home while sitting on the ancient reading chair that Grandma made me take with me when she moved. Years ago, I saw her sew the “C” on her blue handkerchief. Inside were letters. There were a lot of them, and Grandma wrote them all and mailed them to my mom.
As I read, the ground underneath me shook with every letter.
The first one was easy but hurt a lot: “I know what you did.” Grandma reported that part of her money was missing. At first, it was just a little bit, but it increased quickly. She implored my mom to stop playing games and get treatment. She talked about promises that were violated and tears that turned into lies. The tone went from worried to angry, then from angry to sad, and finally from sad to accepting.
Then Grandma changed her will so that I would inherit everything. That was the last straw. She wrote to my mom, “You might think you’ve gotten away with everything, but the truth will always come out.” Emerald loved me no matter what. You won’t get my heritage; she will.
Those phrases made my heart hurt, but by the time I got to the last page, it was cold. Grandma didn’t send this letter. It was sent by my mom. I composed it when Grandma died and we buried her.
“Okay.” You won. I admit it. I accepted the cash. But Emerald cares for me. She’ll do what I tell her to do. Her parents gave her everything. She loves me. In the end, I still win.
The letters were rude and aggressive. Every line showed how full of themselves they were.
I stayed up all night putting together the pieces of the moments that finally made sense. One example was the pricey Christmas gifts she shouldn’t have been able to afford. When she said she needed my credit card “just in case.” The detailed questions about Grandma’s money, which were often disguised as concern, made me uneasy. She was heartbroken, yet she didn’t cry at the funeral. It was math.
I was fatigued by morning, but I knew what I had to do. I called her and spoke softly, letting her know I had something for her. A gift from Grandma. She agreed right away, but her gorgeous voice made it plain that she was hungry.
That afternoon, she came to the coffee shop in her red blazer, which she only wore for special events. She stared right at my purse. She held my hand and chatted to me in a nice way, claiming to care about how hard it had been for me to lose someone. I smiled, took out a gift that was tastefully wrapped, and put it on the table.
She opened it with excitement, only to discover two letters inside: one from Grandma that said “I know what you did” and one I had written myself.
My sentences were short. Sharp. The end.
“I have the other letters.” Everyone will know the truth if you ever try to trick me or take what Grandma left me. Everything.
I watched 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 attempted to make up another excuse, but I got up before she could finish.
I told her, “I love you, Mom,” and my voice was calm. “But you can never trust me again.”
I left her alone with her lies, her shame, and the ghost of the mother she had hurt.
You can’t keep some realities from coming out. Some betrayals leave scars that are too deep to repair.