Grandma got sick, and the anger was replaced by a deep, sickening fear.
The woman who had carried my whole world on her shoulders suddenly couldn’t walk up the stairs without gasping for air.
We couldn’t afford a nurse or caregiver — of course, we couldn’t, we couldn’t afford anything — so I took care of her alone.
“I’ll be okay, kiddo. It’s just a cold. I’ll be up and kicking next week. You just focus on your final exams.”
Liar, I thought.
We couldn’t afford a nurse or caregiver, so I took care of her alone.
“It’s not a cold, Grandma. You need to take it easy. Please, let me help.”
I juggled my final semester of high school with helping her get to the bathroom, feeding her spoonfuls of soup, and making sure she took her mountain of medicine.
Every time I looked at her face, thinner and paler each morning, I felt the panic rise in my chest. What would become of us both?
One evening, I was helping her back into bed when she said something that disturbed me.
She said something that disturbed me.
She was shaking from the exertion of the short walk to the bathroom. As she settled down, her eyes fixed on me with an intensity I hadn’t seen before.
“Liam, I need to tell you something.”
“Later, Grandma. You’re exhausted, and you need to rest.”
But we never got a “later.”
“I need to tell you something.”
When she finally died in her sleep, my world stopped.
I had just graduated from high school, and instead of feeling excited or hopeful, I found myself stuck in a terrifying liminal space that felt like drowning.
I stopped eating properly.
I stopped sleeping.
Then the bills started arriving — water, electricity, property tax, everything.
Then the bills started arriving.
I didn’t know what to do with them.
Grandma had left me the house, but how would I afford to keep it? I’d have to get a job immediately, or maybe try to sell the house just to buy myself a few months of sheer survival before figuring out my next move.
Then, two weeks after the funeral, I got a call from an unknown number.
Two weeks after the funeral, I got a call from an unknown number.
A woman’s voice came through the speaker. “My name is Ms. Reynolds. I’m from the bank, and I’m calling regarding your late grandmother.”
A bank. Those words I’d hated so much, “we can’t afford that,” came rushing back, but with a terrible new twist: she was too proud to ask for help, and now I would be held responsible for some massive, unsettled debt.
The woman’s next words were so unexpected, I almost dropped my phone.
“I’m calling regarding your late grandmother.”
THE END.
