I was thirty-two the day I found out I wasn’t really an orphan.

By then, I believed I had already buried three people: my mother, my father, and then my grandmother. At least, that’s how I thought my life had gone.

The letter arrived three days after her funeral.

Same kitchen table. Same cracked vinyl surface. Same empty chair where her cardigan still hung off the back, one sleeve slipping lower than the other like it had lost its will to stay upright. The house smelled like dust and faint cinnamon, as if it were trying to remember her on its own.

Out of habit, I put the kettle on and set out two mugs.

I didn’t realize what I was doing until I caught myself staring at the second cup.The envelope had my name written across the front in her handwriting.

I stared at it for a long moment.

“Nope,” I muttered. “Absolutely not.”

Then I made tea I didn’t want, because that’s what she would have done. Kettle on. Two mugs. Even though one of us was very much gone.

When I finally opened the envelope, her handwriting hit me harder than any of the speeches at the funeral.

And just like that, I was six years old again.My girl, it began.

If you’re reading this, my stubborn heart finally gave up. I’m sorry to leave you alone again.