At my grandmother’s funeral, I saw my mother, Victoria, discreetly slip a small package into the casket. Something about it felt off, especially since Grandma and Mom hadn’t spoken in years. When the funeral was over and most guests had left, I felt compelled to investigate. I approached Grandma’s casket and, under the fold of her favorite blue dress, I found the package.

My hands trembled as I carefully unwrapped it at home, revealing a stack of letters, all written by Grandma to my mother. The first letter, dated three years ago, was filled with painful accusations. Grandma had noticed the missing money from her accounts—small amounts disappearing month after month. She confronted Mom about her gambling problem, begging her to stop, but it seemed to only get worse.

As I read on, the tone of Grandma’s letters shifted from concern to anger, and finally, to resignation. The last letter was the most heart-wrenching:

“Victoria, You’ve made your choices. I’m leaving everything to Emerald—she’s the only one who has shown me real love. You may think you’ve gotten away with it, but the truth always comes to light.”

I nearly collapsed under the weight of the betrayal. But there was more. A letter dated just two days ago, after Grandma’s death, was from Mom:

“Mom, Fine. You win. I admit it. I took the money. You never understood what it’s like to feel that rush. But guess what? Your plan won’t work. Emerald will give me whatever I ask for, including her inheritance. In the end, I still win.”

I was stunned. My own mother, driven by greed, had manipulated and betrayed both me and Grandma. My mind raced with memories: the times Mom had borrowed money, asked about Grandma’s finances, and made empty promises of change.

The next day, I called my mom. “Can we meet for coffee? There’s something important I need to give you.”

“Of course, darling. Where?” she asked, eager.

“The coffee shop on Mill Street. The quiet one?”

“Perfect. You’re so thoughtful, Emerald.”

When she arrived, her eyes immediately landed on the package on the table. I handed it to her, wrapped in a simple cloth. She opened it, her fingers trembling as she read the first letter, then the second—the one I had written:

“Mom, I have the rest of the letters. If you ever try to manipulate me or come after what Grandma left me, everyone will know the truth. All of it.”

Her face went pale, and her lips trembled. “Emerald, I—”

I stood up, cutting her off. “I love you, Mom, but you lost my trust. Forever.”

I walked out, leaving her to face the truth.

Some lies can’t stay buried forever, no matter how hard you try.