My 68 y.o. grandma wrote in the family chat asking for money

curtains, to the chair cushions, to everything. I swallow hard as I look around. Her shoes are by the door. A cup of tea sits cold on the counter. She hadn’t been expecting to die.

I move deeper into the house, past the photos on the wall. Me in my cap and gown, her holding me, eyes shining. One from when I was eight, missing my front teeth, holding continue reading …