Grief strikes unexpectedly, like missing stairs in the dark. My grandmother Catherine wasn’t just family; she was my best friend, my universe. She made me feel like the most precious thing in the world, enveloping me in hugs that felt like coming home. Standing beside her coffin last week, I felt untethered.

The funeral home’s soft lighting cast shadows across Grandma’s peaceful face. Her silver hair was arranged just as she always wore it, and her favorite pearl necklace lay on her neck. The memory of sitting in her kitchen, laughing over sugar cookies, felt like it happened yesterday.

“Emerald, honey, she’s watching over you now,” Mrs. Anderson, our neighbor, said, pulling me from my thoughts. “Your grandmother never stopped talking about you.”

I wiped a tear. “Remember her apple pies? The whole neighborhood would know it was Sunday just from the smell.”

“Oh, those pies!” Mrs. Anderson smiled. “She’d send you over with slices, proud as could be.”

I tried baking one last week. It wasn’t the same. Then came the heart attack. I wanted to call Grandma to ask what I’d done wrong.

The funeral home was crowded with mourners. I saw my mother, Victoria, standing apart, checking her phone. She hadn’t shed a tear all day.

I watched as she approached the casket, glancing around before discreetly slipping something into it. A small package. My heart raced as she walked away, heels clicking softly.

“Did you see that?” I whispered to Mrs. Anderson.

“See what?”

“My mom just… never mind.” Something felt off. Mom and Grandma hadn’t spoken in years. Grandma wouldn’t have asked her to put something in the casket without my knowledge.

As the evening wore on, I waited for the last guests to leave. The funeral director, Mr. Peters, offered me privacy. “Take all the time you need.”

I approached Grandma’s casket again, heart pounding. Beneath her blue dress — the one she wore to my college graduation — I noticed the corner of a wrapped package. I hesitated, torn between loyalty to my mom and wanting to protect Grandma’s legacy. But my instincts told me I needed to know the truth.

I carefully took the package and slipped it into my purse.

“I’m sorry, Grandma,” I whispered, touching her cold hand one last time. “You always said the truth matters more than comfort.”

At home, I sat in Grandma’s old chair, the one she insisted I take. The package was wrapped in a familiar blue handkerchief with an embroidered “C.” My hands shook as I untied the twine.

Inside were dozens of letters, all written by Grandma to my mother, Victoria. The first letter was dated three years ago. The paper was crisp, though worn around the edges.

“Victoria,
I know what you did. Did you think I wouldn’t notice the missing money? I’ve watched small amounts disappear month after month. I tried to tell myself it was a mistake. But we both know the truth. Your gambling has to stop. It’s breaking my heart. Please, let me help you.”

Each letter revealed more of my mother’s betrayal. One letter mentioned a family dinner where Mom had sworn to stop gambling. I remembered that night. She seemed sincere, but now I wondered if the tears had been real or just another performance.

The final letter from Grandma stopped my breath:
“Victoria,
You’ve made your choices. I’ve made mine. Everything I own will go to Emerald — the only person who’s shown me real love, not just used me. You may think you’ve gotten away with it, but I promise you haven’t. The truth always comes to light.”

The last letter was from my mom to Grandma, written just two days ago:
“Mom,
Fine. I admit it. I took the money. I needed it. But guess what? Your clever little plan won’t work. Emerald adores me. She’ll give me whatever I ask for, including her inheritance. So in the end, I still win.”

I was sickened. My mother had used me to get what she wanted, betraying both her mother and me.

That night, I called Mom. My voice was steady, though my stomach churned.

“Mom, can we meet for coffee? There’s something important I need to give you.”

She sounded eager. “Of course, darling. Where?”

“Mill Street. The quiet coffee shop.”

“Perfect.”

I arrived early, placing the wrapped package on the table. When Mom walked in, her eyes immediately landed on it. She wore her favorite red blazer. She sat down, reaching for my hand.

“You look exhausted, sweetheart,” she said, her voice sweet. “This has been hard on you.”

I nodded, then slid the package across the table. She eagerly tore it open, her eyes widening when she saw the letters. Her face drained of color.

“What’s this?” she asked.

I waited for her to open the second letter. Her fingers trembled as she read. She crumpled the paper, face pale, but I couldn’t bring myself to feel sorry for her.

My letter was short:
“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.”

I rose before she could respond. “I love you, Mom, but you lost my trust. Forever.”

I left her sitting there, alone with the weight of her lies and Grandma’s truth.