Marie hesitated. “But she asked us not to.”
“I know. But I can’t shake this feeling.”
The next day, I drove to Grandma’s little blue house, banana bread still warm on the seat beside me. Everything looked the same—her garden in bloom, wind chimes dancing in the breeze—but something felt… off. The curtains were drawn. No lights inside. My key didn’t work. The locks really had been changed. I knocked. No answer.
I sat in my car down the street, unsure what I was waiting for—until a pickup truck pulled into her driveway. Jenna stepped out. She unlocked the door with ease. No hesitation.
I waited five minutes, then walked up and knocked hard. She opened the door, startled. “What are you doing here?”
“I was about to ask you the same thing.”
I stepped inside.
Grandma was on the couch, wrapped in a blanket, her knitting untouched. She looked older, more tired than I’d ever seen. When her eyes met mine, they brightened. “Claire? You came?”
I rushed to her. “Of course I did. Grandma, why did you send that letter?”
She blinked. “What letter?”
My stomach dropped. “You didn’t write it?”
Behind me, Jenna went still. Grandma frowned. “I wanted to send a note, but Jenna said you and Marie were busy. That you didn’t want to come anymore.”
I turned to Jenna, my voice shaking. “Why would you say that?”
Jenna folded her arms. “She needs care, Claire. I left my job. I moved in. I’ve been handling everything while you and Marie drop by once a week with banana bread and smiles. That’s not enough.”
“Then why not ask us for help?” I asked.
She looked away. “Because she wouldn’t let go. She wouldn’t let anyone else help.”
Grandma sat up, her voice trembling. “What about the papers you asked me to sign? You said it was for insurance.”
Jenna’s silence said everything.
I grabbed my phone. “I’m calling Marie. And then someone who can help sort this out properly.”
“Claire, please—”
“This isn’t just a family matter anymore,” I said, calmly but firmly. “It needs to be handled the right way.”
Marie came over that night. We explained everything to Grandma, and she cried—not just from confusion, but from the pain of thinking we’d left her behind.
A lawyer came the next week. After reviewing everything, things were clarified. The original documents were restored. And Grandma made one final update: any future decisions regarding her care would require the agreement of all three of us.
The fallout left scars. Grandma had grieved us while we were still here. That kind of wound doesn’t heal overnight.
Marie and I started visiting more regularly. We created a schedule so Grandma would never feel alone again. Slowly, we saw light return to her eyes—though part of her smile never quite reached the same brightness.
Jenna stayed, too. She tried to make amends. Some days, Grandma let her help. Other days, she asked for space. One afternoon, as we folded laundry together, I asked, “Do you think you’ll ever forgive her?”
Grandma nodded. “Forgiveness is the easy part. It’s trust that takes time.”
She took my hand gently. “Promise me something. Don’t let this break you three apart. Family’s too precious.”
I couldn’t promise that—not yet. But I made another vow: to never let silence or assumptions get in the way of showing up for the people I love.
Some letters can’t be unwritten. But new chapters? Those are still ours to write.