I was 32 the day I found out I wasn’t really an orphan. But at that point, I’d already buried three people: my mom, my dad, and then my grandma. At least, that’s how I thought it went.
The letter showed up three days after her funeral.
Same old kitchen table. Same ugly vinyl. Same empty chair with her cardigan still hanging off the back. The house smelled like dust and faint cinnamon, like it was trying to remember her.
The envelope had my name on it in her handwriting.