At my grandmother’s funeral, I witnessed my mother discreetly slipping a mysterious package into the coffin. When I later retrieved it out of curiosity, I didn’t expect it to reveal heartbreaking secrets that would haunt me forever.

They say grief comes in waves, but for me, it hits like missing steps in the dark. My grandmother, Caterina, was not just family; she was my best friend, my universe.

She made me feel like the most precious thing in the world, wrapping me in hugs that felt like home. Standing by her coffin last week, I felt lost, as if learning to breathe with only half my lungs.

The soft light of the funeral home cast delicate shadows over my grandmother’s peaceful face. Her silver hair was styled just the way she liked it, and someone had placed her favorite pearl necklace around her neck.

My fingers traced the smooth wood of the coffin as memories flooded back. Just last month, we were standing in her kitchen, sharing tea and laughter while she taught me her secret sugar cookie recipe.

“Smaranda, my dear, you know she’s watching over you from up there,” said Mrs. Andrei, our neighbor, placing a wrinkled hand on my shoulder. Her eyes were red behind her glasses. “Your grandmother never stopped talking about her precious granddaughter.”

I wiped away a tear. “Do you remember how she made those incredible apple pies? The whole neighborhood knew it was Sunday just from the smell.”

“Oh, those pies! She’d send you with slices for us, bursting with pride. ‘Smaranda helped with this,’ she would always say. ‘She has the perfect touch for cinnamon.’”

“I tried to make one last week,” I admitted, with my voice trembling. “It wasn’t the same. I wanted to call her to ask what I did wrong, and then… the heart attack… the ambulance came and—”

“Oh, my dear.” Mrs. Andrei pulled me into a warm hug. “She knew how much you loved her. That’s what matters. And look at all these people here… she touched so many lives.”

The funeral home was indeed crowded, filled with friends and neighbors who whispered stories. I spotted my mother, Victoria, standing aside, checking her phone. She hadn’t shed a tear all day.

While talking with Mrs. Andrei, I saw my mother approach the coffin. She glanced cautiously around before leaning over it, slipping in a small package. When she straightened, her eyes swept the room before she left, her heels clicking softly on the wooden floor.

“Did you see that?” I whispered, feeling my heart thud faster.

“See what, my dear?”

“Mom just…” I hesitated, watching her disappear into the women’s restroom. “Nothing. I guess the grief is playing tricks on me.”

But the unease settled in my stomach like a cold stone. Mother and grandmother barely spoke for years. And there was no way Grandma had requested something to be placed in the coffin without my knowing.

Something wasn’t right.

The evening shadows lengthened across the funeral home’s windows as the last mourners slowly departed. The smell of lilies and roses hung heavy in the air, mingling with the fragrance of those who had left.

Mom had left an hour earlier, saying she had a migraine, but her earlier behavior gnawed at me like a splinter under my skin.

“Miss Smaranda?” The funeral director, Mr. Popescu, appeared beside me. His kind face reminded me of my grandfather, whom I lost five years ago. “Take all the time you need. I’ll be in my office when you’re ready.”

“Thank you, Mr. Popescu.”

I waited until his steps disappeared before approaching Grandma’s coffin again. The room now had a different atmosphere—heavier, full of unspoken words and hidden truths.

In the quiet, my heartbeats seemed excessively loud. I leaned closer, scrutinizing every detail of Grandma’s serene face.

There, barely visible beneath the folds of her favorite dress—the one she wore to my college graduation—lay the corner of something wrapped in blue cloth.

I was gripped by guilt, torn between loyalty to Mom and the need to honor Grandma’s wishes. But my duty to protect Grandma’s legacy weighed heavier.

With trembling hands, I carefully retrieved the package and slipped it into my bag.

“I’m sorry, Grandma,” I whispered, touching her cold hand one last time. Her engagement ring sparkled in the light, a final glimmer of warmth she always wore.

“But something isn’t right here. You taught me to trust my instincts, remember? You always said that truth matters more than comfort.”

Back home, I settled into Grandma’s old reading chair, the one she insisted I take when she moved to a smaller apartment last year. The package rested in my lap, wrapped in a familiar blue handkerchief.

I recognized the embroidered initial ‘C’ in the corner. I had seen Grandma stitch it years ago as she told me stories about her childhood.

“What secrets are you hiding, Mom?” I murmured, carefully undoing the worn thread. My stomach churned at the sight of what followed.

Inside were letters, dozens of them, each bearing Mom’s name, written by Grandma in her distinctive handwriting. The paper was yellowed at the edges, some creased from repeated handling.

The first letter was dated three years ago. The paper was firm, as if it had been read many times:

“Victoria,

I know what you’ve done.

You think I didn’t notice the missing money? That I didn’t check my accounts? Month after month, I saw small amounts disappear. At first, I told myself it had to be a mistake. That my daughter wouldn’t steal from me. But we both know the truth, don’t we?

Your gambling has to stop. You’re destroying yourself and this family. I’ve tried to help, to understand, but you continue to lie to my face while taking more. Remember last Christmas when you swore you’d changed? When you cried and promised to seek help? A week later, another 5,000 lei had vanished.

I’m not doing this for the money. I’m doing it because I’ve lost my daughter. The sweet girl I held in my arms, who shared her innocent secrets with me. Now I look at you and see only the shadow of a stranger, someone willing to manipulate her mother for dirty gains.

You still have a chance, Victoria. If you don’t acknowledge what you’ve done and don’t change, the truth will come out. And next time, I won’t stay silent.

Caterina.”

Every word stung my eyes. I knew the relationship between Mom and Grandma was strained, but this?

I wept, clutching those letters, wishing I could erase the pain.

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