At the cemetery, I stood silently as Grandma’s coffin was lowered into the ground.
Berta tugged on her leash, whining softly, as if she wanted to follow her best friend underground.
Grandma used to joke that Berta was the only soul she trusted completely.
Looking at that loyal old dog, I believed her.
Grandma had always been an unusual woman.
She built her fortune from nothing, worked relentlessly, and believed struggle made people stronger.
She never handed money to her children or grandchildren.
Instead, she paid for everyone’s education and expected the rest to be earned the hard way.
Because of that, my mother, my uncle, my aunt, and their children erased her from their lives.
Until the day she died.
For the last six months of Grandma’s life, I lived with her.
She was sick, fragile, and stubborn as ever.
I worked night shifts as a nurse and spent my days caring for her.
It was exhausting, but I never regretted it.
Once, after receiving an expensive car repair bill, I complained aloud.
“I don’t know how I’ll afford this.”
She barely looked up and said, “You’re strong. You’ll find a way.”
That was Grandma’s version of comfort.
After the funeral, everyone returned to her house for the reading of the will.
I had already packed my belongings.
I knew they wouldn’t let me stay.
The living room felt cold despite the number of people inside.
No one spoke.
The silence was thick with expectation and resentment.
Finally, my aunt broke it.
“What kind of doctor are you again?” she asked with a bored smile.
“I’m a nurse,” I replied.
Their faces twisted with disappointment.
They bragged about businesses, profits, and success.
I said nothing.
