BY THE TIME STEPHANIE REACHED HER GRANDMOTHER'S, her body ached with exhaustion. She slid off the painful heels at the door, padding inside barefoot. The familiar scent of rosemary and candle wax wrapped around her like a blanket.
"Granny?" she called, glancing at the rocking chair. Empty. "Bathroom?"
She drifted to the kitchen, pulled peanut butter, jam, and bread from the cupboards. Simple comfort. She prepared the sandwich and poured a glass of milk, carrying both into the living room.
But when she went to set the plate down, she noticed the envelope on the table. The seal was broken.
Her heart tightened. She slid the papers out—her breath caught. A check for $330,000. And a letter.
Dear seller, it is known to us that you do not want to abandon your property, but we hope you may consider our offer with a generous sum of $330,000 for your premises.
The words blurred. She barely noticed when Linda's voice floated from the hallway.
"Stephanie? I didn't hear you come in."
Stephanie looked up, envelope trembling in her hands. "Granny…how long have these been coming?"
Linda's face softened with guilt. She pushed her glasses higher on her nose. "That's the third notice."
"Third?" Stephanie's voice broke. "Why didn't you tell me? This house is your home—you can't just sell it."
Linda crossed the room slowly, settling beside her. She laid a hand on Stephanie's knee. "I didn't tell you because you've been working so hard already. I never wanted to sell. But maybe…it's for the best. I can't afford taxes anymore. And I don't want you exhausting yourself for me."
"I don't mind," Stephanie whispered.
"But I do," Linda said softly. "You're twenty-two. Your life is only beginning. I don't want you stuck in this endless fight just to keep me afloat. You deserve more."
Stephanie's throat closed. "Is that why you sent me today? Hoping the will would give us something?"
Linda's silence alone was an answer enough.
Tears welled in Stephanie's eyes. "Granny, I'm sorry."
"No, darling. None of this is your fault." Linda squeezed her hand. "You need to move forward. Even if we keep this house, you can't stay here forever. You deserve better."
Stephanie wanted to argue, to scream that she couldn't lose this place too. But her grandmother's words settled like truth against her chest. It hurt because it was real. She had to move on.
She pressed her face into her grandmother's shoulder, inhaling the familiar scent of lavender soap. For the first time all day, she let herself cry.
By the time her tears ran dry, the room had grown darker, the last threads of sunset fading through the curtains. Linda rubbed slow circles on her back, humming a tune that Stephanie recognized from her childhood—soft, off-key, but warm.
"How was the memorial, sweetheart?" her grandmother asked gently.
Stephanie's throat still burned. "Tiring. Confusing." She hesitated, picking at a crumb on her plate. "I got this, though." She slid the small cream envelope across the table.
Linda adjusted her glasses, reading the elegant handwriting on the front. Beatrice Halloway. She raised a brow. "A dinner invitation?"
Stephanie nodded stiffly. "A family dinner. Beatrice made sure to emphasize that part."
Linda smiled faintly. "You're not planning on going, are you?"
"I wasn't." She crossed her arms. "They don't want me there. They just want to gloat."
Her grandmother sighed, leaning back in her chair. "Maybe. But maybe they want to test you too. See if you'll come back after everything."
"Why would I? After what Dad—" Her voice cracked. She swallowed hard. "After what they all did?"
Linda reached over and took her hand, her palm warm and frail. "Because bottling it all up, keeping yourself locked away, it'll hurt more when you're alone. I've watched you, Steph. You pretend you're fine, but I hear you crying some nights."
Stephanie blinked fast, embarrassed. "I didn't want you to worry."
"I do worry," Linda said softly, her eyes misty. "Every time I hear you breaking behind closed doors, it hurts me more than you know. You keep trying to be strong—for me—but darling, strength isn't silence."
Stephanie bit her lip, her heart twisting. "You're saying I should go."
"I'm saying… don't let the past chain you," Linda said, her voice trembling slightly. "I won't be here forever, sweetheart." She coughed lightly, brushing it off with a small wave of her hand. "And when I'm gone, you'll have to face it all—every bit of pain you've been hiding. It's better to let some of it out now, before it swallows you whole."
"Granny…" Stephanie's eyes filled again.
Linda gave her a watery smile. "You don't have to like them. But learn from them. Use them. And maybe, just maybe, you'll find some peace in showing them that you're stronger than they ever believed."
The room was quiet for a long moment, filled only by the soft ticking of the clock and the faint hiss of wind through the open window.
"Okay," Stephanie whispered finally. "I'll go."
Her grandmother smiled tiredly. "Good. Now eat your sandwich before it gets soggy."
Stephanie let out a shaky laugh, wiping her cheeks. "You sound like Mom."
Linda's eyes softened with something unreadable. "She'd be proud of you," she said. "Even if you don't believe it yet."
The next morning arrived pale and heavy with fog. Stephanie stirred awake to the faint smell of smoke.
She frowned, sitting up. "Granny?"
A muffled crackle echoed from the kitchen.
"Granny!" she called again, slipping from bed, her socks sliding against the wooden floor. The smoke was faint, but enough to sting her eyes. She rushed toward it and froze at the doorway.
The frying pan lay overturned on the stove, smoke curling from its blackened surface. And Linda—her grandmother—was on the floor beside it, her frail hand still clutching the handle of her cane.
"Granny!" Stephanie fell to her knees, her heart hammering as she touched her grandmother's cheek. Cold. Too cold. "No, no, no, please…" She shook her lightly, then harder. "Granny!"
Her vision blurred with tears. She fumbled for her phone, dialing emergency services with trembling fingers, her breath coming in sharp, uneven gasps.
Her voice was barely coherent when she spoke: "My grandmother—she's not—she's not waking up—please—"
The world became soundless after that. Just the sirens, the blur of red lights, and a paramedic's voice somewhere far away telling her to step aside. She stood outside barefoot in the dew-wet grass, hugging her arms around herself as dawn broke through the fog.