My 68-year-old grandma sent a simple message in the family group chat: “Does anyone have a little to spare? I need $60 for something important.” No one answered. Not my aunts, uncles, cousins—no one. Two days later, I quietly sent her the money, hoping she was okay. That night, she died in her sleep.
The next morning, numb and shaky, I went to her tiny apartment to help with arrangements. I expected to find unpaid bills or groceries. Instead, on her table sat a small, gift-wrapped box and a handwritten note with my name: “Thank you for remembering me.”
Inside was a pair of leather sketchbooks and pencils—the exact set I’d admired months ago but never bought. Her note continued: “You always believed in my stories. I wanted you to have the tools to tell your own.” I collapsed, weeping.
At her funeral, everyone else arrived with flowers. I brought her final gift—and a promise. I would finish the book she never had the chance to write. Because while the rest of the family ignored her, she spent her last breath believing in me.