Grief, they say, comes in waves, but for me, it’s like tripping on unseen stairs in the dark. My grandmother, Catherine, was more than family—she was my best friend, the light in my life. She made me feel cherished, her hugs like coming home. Standing by her casket last week, I felt like I’d lost my compass.

At the funeral, I noticed my mother, Victoria, standing aloof, dry-eyed, and distracted. She slipped something into Grandma’s casket and quickly left, sparking a deep unease in me. That night, I discovered letters Grandma had written to Mom, revealing a betrayal that shattered my trust. My mother had been siphoning Grandma’s money, her gambling addiction tearing our family apart. In one letter, Grandma wrote she’d willed everything to me because of Mom’s deceit.

Later, I confronted my mother with a final letter of my own, one making it clear that any attempt to manipulate me would expose her truth. The hurt is deep, but I left that coffee shop knowing I’d honor Grandma’s legacy, holding onto the values she’d taught me. Some truths, I learned, won’t stay buried, no matter how hard we try.