Grandpa raised me on pension checks, garden tomatoes, and bedtime stories about people who kept their promises.
Yesterday, I buried him.
Today, my family had come back for his house.
Mom snapped her fingers in front of me and shoved two black garbage bags into my arms.
“Pack whatever little things belong to you,” she said. “Clothes. Toothbrush. That ugly quilt. You were his responsibility, Emily. The house is ours now.”
Brianna appeared at the top of the stairs.
“Mom, can I paint the master bedroom white? This wood paneling is depressing.”
Dad finally looked at me.
“Don’t make this difficult. Your grandfather always intended the property to stay in the family.”
I almost laughed.
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