She scrimped and saved to put herself through college. She helped her with rent, car repairs, and even loaned her money when she lost a job in her 30s. But it was never enough.
Karen had a way of making Grandma feel small, like whatever she gave was the bare minimum and never worth appreciating.
The last time Karen came home before Grandma got sick, she spent most of the visit criticizing the wallpaper and complaining about the lack of central air. Grandma never said a word in her defense, just kept moving around the kitchen like the insults hadn’t landed. She still cooked her favorite meal, chicken and dumplings, but Karen barely touched it.
When Grandma was dying, I was 25.
Watching someone you love slowly fade from the world does something to you. It chips away at you, little by little. I remember how the house felt near the end.
It was quiet, but not peaceful. It was the kind of quiet that made it feel like the walls were holding their breath.
One night, she called me into her room. Her voice was so faint I had to kneel beside her bed to hear her clearly.
“Sweetheart,” she whispered, her fingers gently brushing mine, “after I’m gone, promise me you’ll move my rosebush.
