I was folding Grandma’s blankets when my sister texted, the money cleared and we just landed in Santorini. I smiled, set the laundry aside, and said good thing I emptied the account the night before. By the time they reached the front desk of the villa, everything began to fall apart.
My name is Hannah Mercer, and the morning my sister believed she had finally outplayed me, I was standing in our grandmother’s laundry room folding old quilted blankets that still carried a faint scent of lavender and cedar.
Grandma Louise had been gone for eleven days.
Eleven days since the funeral, eleven days since people filled the house with casseroles, sympathy, and practiced softness, and eleven days since my older sister, Brooke, had started acting like grief was just paperwork between her and a better vacation.
Our grandmother had raised both of us after our mother died, and for most of my life, I believed that meant something. I thought it meant loyalty. I thought it meant there were lines you simply didn’t cross.
