I thought wearing my grandmother’s prom dress would help me say goodbye.Dresses
Instead, it almost made me believe she had lied to me my entire life.
She died on my nineteenth birthday.
I had been so proud that morning. I’d finally baked the blueberry pie she used to make with me—no help, no reminders, just muscle memory and love. I rushed into the living room to show her, still warm in my hands.
She was in her chair by the window.
Same position. Same blanket.
“Grandma?” I smiled, stepping closer. “Hey… don’t do that.”Apparel
I touched her hand.
Cold.
Everything after that felt like it happened to someone else. Voices, footsteps, hands on my shoulders. Someone saying my name over and over while I sat on the floor, holding onto her sleeve like letting go would make it real.
“She’s gone, honey.”
“No,” I said. “She’s just tired.”
But she wasn’t.
Hours later, I sat at the kitchen table, staring at the pie I never got to show her, while Mrs. Kline hovered beside me, smelling like lilac and sympathy.Baked Goods
“I remember when she brought you home,” she said softly.
