thought wearing my grandma’s prom dress would help me say goodbye. Instead, the tailor uncovered something hidden in the hem—a note that made me question everything she had ever told me.
My grandma died on my nineteenth birthday. It happened the moment I ran in to show her the blueberry pie I had finally baked without her help.
She was sitting in her chair by the window, just like always. Same posture. Same blanket over her knees.
“Grandma?” I stepped closer, my smile fading. “Hey… don’t do that.”
I touched her hand.
Cold.
“No. No, no, no… you’re kidding, right?”
I don’t remember calling for help. I only remember sitting on the floor, clutching her sleeve, terrified that if I let go, she would vanish completely.
People came. Voices filled the house. Someone kept saying my name like I was far away.
“She’s gone, honey,” a woman said gently.
