My 68-year-old grandma sent a family group chat message: “Does anyone have $60 to spare?” No one responded. Two days later, I checked on her, but that night, she passed away in her sleep. At her small apartment, I found a gift-wrapped box with my name and a note: “Thank you for remembering me.”
Inside were leather sketchbooks and pencils I’d admired months earlier. Her note read, “You believed in my stories. Now tell yours.” Devastated, I wept, struck by her selflessness. At her funeral, while others brought flowers, I brought her gift and a vow. Her quiet gesture outshone everyone’s silence—she believed in me when no one else did.
I promised to finish the book she never wrote. Every word will carry her spirit, her love louder than the ignored messages. Grandma’s faith in me lives on, guiding my pen.
