My 68-year-old grandma sent a simple message in the family group chat: “Does anyone have a little to spare? I need $60 for something important.” No one replied. Not my aunts, uncles, cousins—no one. Two days later, I sent it without a word, just hoping she was okay.
That night, she died in her sleep.The next morning, numb and shaky, I went to her tiny apartment to help with arrangements. I expected to find bills or groceries—but on her table was a small, gift-wrapped box. Beside it, a handwritten note with my name on it: “Thank you for remembering me.”
Inside was a pair of leather sketchbooks and pencils—ones I’d admired months ago but never bought. Her note continued, “You always believed in my stories. I wanted you to have the tools to tell your own.” I collapsed, weeping.Everyone else showed up with flowers at her funeral. I brought her final gift—and a promise. I’d write the book she never finished. Because the woman they ignored believed in me… even with her last breath.
