My instinct is to act like a stubborn asshole and walk out, just to make a point. But a voice in my head urges me to stay and follow the old lady.
My grandmother leads me to a big room filled with enough books to fill a small library. She closes the door and slides one of the shelves aside to reveal a safe. With agile fingers, she carefully opens the safe and pulls out an envelope.
“Here,” she says, sliding a letter out of the envelope and handing it to me.
I glance at the paper and immediately recognize my mother’s handwriting. The letter was dated two weeks before my mom died. She’d been weak back then and knew she didn’t have much time left. I’d asked her if she was afraid . . . I couldn’t say the rest of my sentence out loud. “Of dying?” she asked. When I nodded, she took my hand in
