“Emerald, dear, she’s watching over you now,” Mrs. Anderson, our neighbor, said gently, resting her wrinkled hand on my shoulder. Her eyes were glassy behind her glasses. “Your grandmother always spoke about her precious granddaughter.”
I brushed away a tear. “Remember her famous apple pies? The whole block would know it was Sunday just from the smell.”
“Oh yes! She’d send you over with some for us, proud as could be. ‘Emerald helped with this one,’ she’d say. ‘She has the perfect touch with the cinnamon.’”
“I tried baking one last week,” I admitted, my voice trembling. “It wasn’t the same. I reached for the phone to ask her what I’d done wrong, and then… the heart attack… the ambulance came and—”
“Oh, sweetheart.” Mrs. Anderson pulled me into a warm embrace. “She knew how much you cared. That’s what counts. Look at all these people here—she touched so many lives.”
The funeral home was packed with friends and neighbors quietly sharing memories. I spotted my mother, Victoria, standing apart, absorbed in her phone, not shedding a tear all day.
While talking with Mrs. Anderson, I noticed Mom approach the coffin. She glanced around nervously before slipping a small package inside. Her polished hand moved quickly, then she stepped back, her heels clicking softly on the floor.
“Did you see that?” I whispered, heart pounding.
“See what, dear?”
“My mom just…” I hesitated, watching her disappear into the restroom. “Never mind. Must be my imagination.”
Still, a cold knot formed in my stomach. Mom and Grandma barely spoke in recent years. Grandma never asked for anything like this without telling me.
Something wasn’t right.
As evening shadows grew longer and the last guests left, the floral scents lingered heavily in the air.
Mom had gone home earlier, claiming a migraine, but her odd behavior stuck with me.
“Ms. Emerald?” Mr. Peters, the funeral director, appeared beside me. His kindly face reminded me of my late grandfather. “Take all the time you need. I’ll be nearby if you want to talk.”\
“Thank you, Mr. Peters.”
Once alone, I approached Grandma’s casket again. The room felt heavier now, filled with silence and hidden stories.
My heart thudded loudly as I studied her peaceful face.
Beneath the fold of her favorite blue dress — the one she wore to my graduation — I spotted a corner of something wrapped in cloth.
Torn between loyalty to Mom and respect for Grandma, I reached inside, my hands shaking, and retrieved the package.
“I’m sorry, Grandma,” I whispered, touching her cold hand one last time. Her wedding ring caught the light — a small reminder of the warmth she’d always given.
“But something’s wrong. You taught me to trust my gut. You said the truth matters more than comfort.”
Back home, I sat in Grandma’s old reading chair, the package in my lap wrapped in a familiar blue handkerchief.
I recognized the embroidered “C” in the corner — a detail Grandma stitched years ago while sharing stories.
“What are you hiding, Mom?” I murmured, carefully untying the worn twine.
Inside were letters, dozens of them, each addressed to Mom in Grandma’s handwriting. The pages yellowed and creased.
The first letter, dated three years earlier, was crisp but worn:
“Victoria,
I know what you’ve done.
Did you think I wouldn’t notice the missing money? That I wouldn’t check my accounts? Month after month, small amounts disappeared. At first, I told myself it was a mistake. That my own daughter wouldn’t steal. But we both know the truth.
Your gambling must stop. You’re destroying yourself and our family. I’ve tried to help you, but you keep lying while taking more. Remember last Christmas when you promised to change? A week later, another $5,000 vanished.
I’m not writing to shame you, but it breaks my heart.
Please, Victoria. Let me help you—really help.
Mom”
My hands trembled reading more letters. Each revealed the heartbreaking story I never knew, from concern to anger to hopelessness.
One letter mentioned a family dinner where Mom swore she’d quit gambling.
I remembered that night—Mom’s tears, her promise to Grandma. Now I wondered if it had all been a show.
The final letter from Grandma made me catch my breath:
“Victoria,
You’ve made your choices. I’ve made mine. Everything I own will go to Emerald—the only one who truly loved me, not used me as a bank. You may think you got away with it, but truth always comes out.
Remember when you said I played favorites? I loved you both, just differently. Emerald loved me unconditionally.
I still love you, but I cannot trust you.
Mom”
My hands shook reading the last letter—this one was from Mom to Grandma, dated two days after Grandma’s death, angry and sharp:
“Mom,
Fine. You win. I admit it—I took the money. I needed it. You never understood the rush, the need. But your plan won’t work. Emerald adores me. She’ll give me whatever I want. Including her inheritance. I win.
Maybe now you’ll stop controlling everyone from beyond the grave. Goodbye.
Victoria”
That night, sleep escaped me. Memories shifted as I processed this new reality.
The expensive Christmas gifts, Mom’s “borrowing” my credit card, her concerns disguised as care.
“Have you thought about power of attorney?” she’d asked. “We need to protect Grandma’s assets.”
My mother, driven by greed, betrayed Grandma—and me.
By morning, eyes burning, mind clear, I called her calmly:
“Mom, can we meet for coffee? I have something important.”
“What is it? Are you okay? You sound tired.”
“I’m fine. It’s about Grandma. She left a package for you. Said to give it ‘when the time was right.’”
“Oh!” Her eager tone made me wince. “Where?”
“The coffee shop on Mill Street? The quiet one?”
“Perfect. You’re such a thoughtful daughter, Emerald. So different from me with my mother.”
The irony stabbed me. “See you at two.”
That afternoon, Mom entered the café in her favorite red blazer, eyes instantly on my purse.
She reached for my hand. “You look exhausted. This has been hard—you and Grandma were close.”
I nodded and placed the bundle on the table—blank pages topped by two letters: Grandma’s “I know what you did” and one I wrote.
“What’s this?” she asked, breaking the seal. Her face drained as she opened mine, fingers trembling.
My letter was simple:
“Mom,
I have the rest of the letters. If you try to manipulate me or go after Grandma’s inheritance, everyone will know the truth. All of it.
Emerald”
“Emerald, honey, I—”
I stood, cutting her off as years of lies broke in her tears.
“I love you, Mom, but that doesn’t give you the right to manipulate me. You lost my trust. Forever.”
I left her alone with her guilt and Grandma’s truth, realizing some secrets can’t stay buried, no matter how hard you try.
