Grandma raised me after my mother died. She taught me to sew a button, balance a budget, and face wolves without showing fear. In her final week, when her hands were nothing but bones beneath hospital sheets, she whispered, “When they laugh, let them. Then go to the bank.”
I stepped forward.
My father’s hand shot out. “Leave it.”
I met his eyes. “No.”
His gaze hardened. “Don’t embarrass yourself, Elise.”
“You already did that for me.”
The cemetery froze again.
I climbed down carefully, my heels sinking into wet mud, and lifted the small blue savings book from Grandma’s coffin lid. Dirt stained its cover. My fingers trembled, but my voice stayed steady.
“It was hers,” I said. “Now it’s mine.”
Father leaned close enough that I smelled whiskey on his breath. “You think she saved you? That old woman couldn’t save herself.”
