Three years ago, something strange happened. My grandfather called me at midnight, his voice shaking.
“Angela,” he said, “Diane told me you don’t want to see me anymore. She said you think I’m a burden.”
My heart nearly stopped. I had never said anything like that. I love my grandfather more than anyone in the world.
“Grandpa, that’s not true,” I told him. “I would never say that. I love you.”
He was quiet for a moment, then he said,VI know, sweetheart. I know you. That’s why I called.”
He never explained what made him doubt Diane’s words, but something in his voice that night stayed with me.
When Grandpa passed away, I drove home to help sort through his belongings. The house felt hollow without him. But what surprised me was the warmth I received from Martha, his elderly neighbor. She was the only person who seemed genuinely happy to see me.
“Your grandfather talked about you all the time,” Martha said, her kind eyes studying my face. “He said you were the only honest one in that family.”
She paused, and something sad flickered across her expression.
“He asked me to keep an eye on you, if anything ever happened. He was worried about something.”
I thanked her politely, but her words unsettled me in ways I couldn’t explain.
Inside the house, I noticed Diane acting strangely. She kept glancing toward Grandpa’s office, where he kept important documents. Later, I caught her whispering to our mother in the kitchen.
“I’ve handled everything,” Diane said, her voice low and urgent. “She won’t be a problem.”
Our mother nodded, looking relieved. I stood frozen in the hallway, my heart pounding.
What were they talking about?
That night, I overheard Diane on the phone, her voice cold and confident.
“The lawyer won’t question anything. I’ve been preparing for this for months.”
Something was very wrong. I could feel it in my bones.
That night, unable to sleep, I went to Grandpa’s old cabinet to look for keepsakes. Behind a loose board at the back, I found an envelope, sealed, my name written on the front in Grandpa’s shaky handwriting.
I opened it with trembling hands. What I read inside didn’t just reveal the truth. It revealed that everything I believed about my family—about my entire life—was a lie.
The letter was three pages long, written in Grandpa’s shaky handwriting. The paper was thin, worn at the edges, as if he had held it many times before finally hiding it away.
I sat down on the cold floor of his office, my back against the cabinet, and I began to read. By the second paragraph, my hands were trembling so badly I could barely hold the pages steady.
Angela, he wrote,
I need you to know the truth before it’s too late.
For over 10 years, Diane has been poisoning this family against you. She told your mother that you said she was a bad parent, that you mocked her behind her back. She told your father that you were embarrassed by his job, that you told your friends he was “just a factory worker.” She told me that you didn’t want to visit anymore, that you found me boring and old.
I believed her at first. Your parents still believe her. But I started paying attention.
I called you, and you always answered. Every single time. And there was love in your voice, Angela. Real love—not the coldness Diane described.
I watched Diane’s face when she talked about you, and I saw something that chilled me. There was no sadness when she said you had abandoned us. There was satisfaction. She was enjoying it.
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