“Does anyone have a little money to spare? I’d like to buy something important,” she wrote in our group chat.
Most of us scrolled past it. Life was busy, and we assumed she was fine. Grandma was always independent — she never asked for much, and when she did, it was usually for someone else.
The next morning, she was gone. Peacefully, in her sleep.
A Discovery in Her Kitchen
When I went to her small home the next day to help my parents clean, I thought I was prepared. But as soon as I stepped into her cozy kitchen — the one that always smelled faintly of cinnamon and lavender — I froze.
On the table sat dozens of small, beautifully wrapped gift boxes. Each one had a golden ribbon tied neatly on top, and a little tag with a name written in her familiar handwriting. My name was there. So were my parents’, my cousins’, even my uncle’s — the one who hadn’t visited in years.
Curious and trembling, I opened mine. Inside was a tiny silver pendant, a black-and-white photo of us taken years ago, and a folded piece of paper. It was her handwriting again, gentle but firm.
“You were the only one who listened when I needed someone,” it said. “Don’t ever lose that kindness. It’s the rarest thing we can give.”
That’s when I realized what she had done.
