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

I had more to give. Not just money — more time, more dinners, more Sunday mornings.

Don’t be angry with the others. People get busy. People forget. But never think you weren’t loved.

Love you always,
Grandma”

I’m crying now. The kind of crying that catches you off guard, messy and unstoppable. My fingers clutch the letter as if it can bring her back.

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