A year after we buried my grandmother, I kept the strangest promise I’d ever made to her: move her favorite rosebush.
I’m Bonnie, 26, from northern Michigan—where winters teach you to lean on your people. My grandmother, Liz, was the anchor of our family. She carried herself with quiet strength, smelled faintly of Ivory soap and cinnamon, and had a way of making every room feel warmer just by being in it.
Before she passed, she took my hand and whispered:
“After I’m gone, sweetheart, move my rosebush. A year to the day. Promise.”
I promised, though I didn’t understand why. She added that the house would be left to my mom and me. She passed just three days later, leaving behind love—and a mystery.
But not everyone accepted her wishes. My aunt Karen, who lived in Chicago, showed up with paperwork claiming the house was hers. My mom and I were heartbroken, confused, and powerless. We searched for the will we knew existed, but it was nowhere to be found. Before long, the home my grandmother built was no longer ours.
Continue reading on next page…