At my grandmother’s funeral, I saw my mother discreetly place a mysterious package in the coffin. When I later removed it out of curiosity, I didn’t expect it to reveal heartbreaking secrets that would haunt me for the rest of my life.
They say grief comes in waves, but for me it came like steps that are not there in the dark. My grandmother Catherine was more than just a family member; she was my best friend, my universe. She made me feel like the most precious thing in the world, hugging me like I was coming home. Standing next to her casket last week, I felt unsupported, like I had to learn to breathe with half a lung.
The soft light in the ritual room cast gentle shadows on Grandma’s peaceful face. Her silver hair was styled the way she always wore it, and someone had put her favourite pearl necklace on her.
My fingers slid over the smooth wood of the coffin, and memories came flooding back. It was another month ago that we were sitting in her kitchen, drinking tea and laughing as she taught me her secret recipe for sugar biscuits.
‘Esmerald, dear, she’s watching you now, you know?’ – Mrs Anderson, our neighbour, said, placing a wrinkled hand on my shoulder. Her eyes were red from tears behind her glasses. ‘Your grandmother never stopped talking about her precious granddaughter.’
I wiped away a tear. ‘Remember how she used to make those incredible apple pies? The whole neighbourhood knew it was Sunday just by the smell.’
‘Oh, those pies! She always sent you slices for us, proud as could be. ‘Esmerald helped with that,’ she always said. ‘It has the perfect cinnamon flavour.’’
‘I tried to make one last week,’ I admitted, my voice quivering. ‘But it didn’t turn out right. I picked up the phone to ask her what I’d done wrong, and then…heart attack…the ambulance came and…’
‘Oh, dear.’ Mrs Anderson hugged me tightly. ‘She knew how much you loved her. That’s what’s important. And look at all these people here…she touched a lot of people’s lives.’
The ritual hall was really crowded, with friends and neighbours whispering, sharing memories. I noticed my mum, Victoria, standing off to the side, checking her phone. She hadn’t shed a single tear all day.
While Mrs Anderson and I were talking, I saw my mum walk over to the coffin. She looked round furtively before bending down and putting something inside. It looked like a small parcel.
When she straightened up, her eyes quickly ran round the room and she was gone, her heels clicking quietly on the wooden floor.
‘Did you see that?’ – I whispered, my heart racing.
‘What, darling?’
‘My mum just…’ – I fell silent, watching my mum walk away to the ladies room. ‘Nothing. I guess grief plays jokes.’
But worry settled in my stomach like a cold stone. Mum and Grandma had barely communicated in recent years. And there was no way Grandma had asked for anything to be put in her casket without my knowledge.
Something wasn’t right.
The shadows of evening lengthened across the windows of the ritual hall as the last mourners left the room. The smell of lilies and roses hung in the air, mingling with the last scent of the guests leaving.
Mum had left an hour ago, citing a migraine, but her earlier behaviour still continued to bother me like a thorn under my skin.
‘Miss Esmerald?’ – appeared next to my elbow, the face of the funeral director, Mr Peters. His benevolent face reminded me of my grandfather, whom we had lost five years ago. ‘Take as much time as you need. I’ll be in my office when you’re ready.’
‘Thank you, Mr Peters.’
I waited until his footsteps had died down and walked over to my grandmother’s coffin again. The room seemed different now. Heavier, filled with unspoken words and hidden truths.
In the silence, I felt like my heart was beating too loud. I leaned closer, studying every detail of my grandmother’s peaceful face.
There, barely visible beneath the fold of her favourite blue dress – the one she wore to my college graduation – was a corner of something wrapped in blue fabric.
I struggled with guilt, torn between loyalty to my mother and a desire to honour Grandma’s wishes. But the duty to protect Grandma’s legacy outweighed.
My hands trembled as I carefully retrieved the parcel and tucked it away in my bag.
‘I’m sorry, Grandma,’ I whispered, touching her cold hand one last time. Her wedding ring caught the light, the last spark of the warmth she’d always possessed.
‘But something’s not right here. You taught me to trust my instincts, remember? You always said the truth was more important than comfort.’
At home, I sat in my grandmother’s old reading chair that she’d insisted I take when she’d moved to a smaller flat last year. The parcel lay in my lap, wrapped in a familiar blue shawl.
I recognised the exquisite ‘C’ embroidered in the corner. I had seen my grandmother embroider it decades ago, telling me stories about her childhood.
‘What secrets are you hiding, Mum?’ – I muttered, carefully untangling the frayed rope. My stomach clenched at what I saw inside.
There were letters, dozens of letters, each with my mum’s name written in my grandmother’s special handwriting. The paper was yellowed at the edges, some were crinkled from frequent handling.
The first letter was dated three years ago. The paper was fresh, as if it had been read many times:
‘Victoria,
I know what you did.
Did you think I wouldn’t notice the money was missing? That I wouldn’t check my accounts? Month after month I’ve seen small amounts disappear. At first I thought it was a mistake. That my own daughter wouldn’t steal from me. But we both know the truth, don’t we?
Your gambling has got to stop. You’re destroying yourself and this family. I’ve tried to help you, to understand, but you keep getting in my face, taking more and more. Remember last Christmas when you swore you’d changed? When you cried and promised you’d get help? And then a week later, $5000 was missing again.
I’m not writing to judge you. I’m writing because it pains me to watch you fall.
Please, Victoria. Let me help you…really help you this time.
Mum.’
My hands shook as I read letter after letter. Each one revealed more history I didn’t know, painting a picture of betrayal that made my stomach twist.
The dates spanned several years, the tone of the letters changing from concern to anger and then to humility.
One letter mentioned a family dinner when Mum swore she wouldn’t gamble again.
I remembered that night – she looked so sincere, tears streaming down her face as she hugged her grandmother. Now I wondered if those tears were real or if it was just another game.
The last letter from my grandmother made me freeze:
‘Victoria,
‘You made your choice. I’ve made mine. Everything I have will go to Esmerald, the only person who has shown me true love rather than using me as a personal bank. You may think you got away with it, but believe me, you didn’t. The truth always comes out.
Remember when Esmerald was little and you accused me of playing favourites? You said I loved her more than you. The truth is, I loved you both in different ways, but equally. The difference was that she loved me back unconditionally, expecting nothing in return.
I still love you. I always will. But I can’t trust you.
Mum.’
My hands shook as I unfolded the last letter. It was from my mum to my grandmother, dated just two days ago, after my grandmother had died. The handwriting was harsh, angry:
‘Mum,
Okay. You win. I confess. I took the money. I needed it. You never understood what it was like to feel that adrenaline, that need. But guess what? Your clever little plan isn’t gonna work. Esmereld adores me. She’ll give me anything I ask for. Including her inheritance. Because she loves me. So in the end, I won anyway.
Maybe now you can stop trying to control everyone from the grave. Goodbye.
Victoria.’
That night passed without sleep. I paced around the flat, memories shifting and re-forming, with a new understanding of reality.
Christmas presents that always seemed too expensive. The times my mum would ask to ‘poke around’ on my credit card for ‘emergencies’. All those conversations about Grandma’s finances disguised as a daughter’s concern.
‘Have you talked to Mum about notary power of attorney?’ – she once asked. ‘You know how she forgets.’
‘She seems fine to me,’ I replied.
‘Just thinking about the future, honey. We need to protect her property.’
My mother, driven by greed, had betrayed my grandmother and now me.
By morning, my eyes were burning, but my mind was clear. I called her, keeping my voice steady:
‘Mum, can we meet for coffee? I have something important for you.’
‘What is it, dear?’ Her voice poured with a honeyed tinge. ‘Are you okay? You sound tired.’
‘I’m fine. It’s about Grandma. She left you a parcel. Said I should give it to her when the time was right.’
‘Oh! Sounds like something I’m looking forward to.’
