The letter arrived in a simple envelope, my name in Grandma’s graceful script. I’m Sophie, and her letters always lifted my spirits, so I tore it open, ignoring other mail. My joy faded as I read: “Stay away. I’ve changed the locks. I want quiet. Don’t contact me.” My hands trembled, the words sinking in. My pulse raced, silencing the birds outside. This couldn’t be Grandma. She raised me, my sisters Anna and Lily, after our parents died. Her home was our haven, her stories our comfort. Last time, we’d laughed over tea, her hug warm. What changed?
I wandered my apartment, rereading the letter, desperate for sense. It offered none. I called Anna, my older sister. “Did Grandma send you something?” I asked. “Yeah,” she said, rushed. “No visits, new locks. I’m swamped, Sophie.” Her coldness hurt. “She was our mom,” I said. Anna brushed me off, saying we’d talk later. I dialed Lily, my younger sister. “I got the letter,” she said, worried. “Her phone’s off.” We knew something was off. Grandma’s health was frail, and this wasn’t her. “I’m going tomorrow,” I said, defying the letter. Lily promised to wait for news.
I drove to Grandma’s house, a warm zucchini loaf beside me, its scent a reminder of our visits. Her yellow house stood as always—tidy lawn, porch swing—but the windows were dark, curtains drawn. My key didn’t work; the locks were new. I knocked, but silence answered. I slumped back to my car, but a strange urge kept me there. I parked down the street, watching. Soon, Anna’s car pulled in. She unlocked Grandma’s door and slipped inside. Why did she have a key when we were all barred?
I marched to the door, knocking loudly. Anna answered, startled. “Sophie? What’s this?” I stepped in. “Why are you here?” Grandma sat on her armchair, a shawl over her knees, looking fragile. “Sophie?” she said, confused. I knelt by her. “Why the letter?” She blinked. “What letter?” My heart raced. I turned to Anna, who stood still. Grandma’s voice shook. “Anna said you and Lily didn’t want to visit.” The betrayal hit hard. Anna had faked the letters, convincing Grandma we’d left her.
“You wrote them?” I whispered. Anna nodded. “She needs constant care. I moved in, quit work.” I yelled, “So you lied? Forged her writing?” Anna said, “Your visits aren’t enough.” I snapped, “Ask for help, don’t deceive!” She admitted, “She wouldn’t have changed her will.” Grandma’s eyes widened. “What will?” Anna stammered, “It was for your care.” Grandma looked betrayed. “You said it was insurance.” I called Lily and a lawyer, saying, “This is abuse, Anna.” Grandma said, “You broke our hearts.”
Lily came, and we stayed, showing Grandma the letter. She wept, thinking we’d moved on. “Never,” Lily said. We met a lawyer, scrapped the new will, and secured the original, adding protections. Anna stayed, subdued, trying to mend things, but Grandma’s trust wavered. I visited daily, Lily often, keeping Grandma close. Her laugh returned, but pain lingered. “I forgave Anna,” she said, sorting linens, “but trust doesn’t heal fast.” I vowed to keep family tight, to rewrite our story with truth and care, leaving lies behind.
