A cardigan felt like something from another era—hers, not mine. A few weeks later, my grandmother passed away. There was no dramatic goodbye. No warnings, no fading health—just a sudden, hollow space where a person used to be.
No final heart-to-heart. Just a phone call in the early morning, and then silence where her voice used to be. I packed the cardigan into a box with old photos and birthday cards and told myself I’d deal with the feelings later. I shoved the box into the darkest corner of the attic, away from the light and the guilt.
Years passed. I built a life. I became a mother.
