The letter came in a white envelope, my name in Grandma’s delicate cursive. I’m Ava, and her notes always cheered me, so I opened it first, ignoring other mail. My breath caught as I read: “Don’t come back. I’ve changed the locks. I need calm. Don’t call or write.” My hands trembled, the words searing. My heart raced, silencing the spring day outside. This wasn’t Grandma. She raised me, my sisters Rachel and Lily, after our parents passed. Her home was our sanctuary, her love our strength. Last visit, we’d gardened, her hug tight. What happened?
I roamed my apartment, rereading the letter, seeking answers. It offered none. I called Rachel, my older sister. “Did Grandma send you a letter?” I asked. “Yeah,” she said, sharp. “No visits, new locks. I’m slammed, Ava.” Her coldness stung. “She was our home,” I said. Rachel hung up, saying we’d talk soon. I called Lily, my younger sister. “I got it too,” she said, voice soft. “Her phone’s off.” We knew something was wrong. Grandma’s health was weak, and this wasn’t her. “I’m going tomorrow,” I said, defying the letter. Lily asked for news.
I drove to Grandma’s, a warm peach cobbler beside me, its scent tied to our weekends. Her white house stood as ever—tidy yard, porch flowers—but the windows were dark, curtains closed. My key didn’t work; the locks were new. I knocked, but silence greeted me. I headed to my car, but a feeling held me back. I parked down the road, watching. Soon, Rachel’s car pulled in. She unlocked Grandma’s door and slipped inside. Why did she have a key when we were all shut out?
I stormed to the door, knocking firmly. Rachel opened, eyes wide. “Ava? What’s this?” I entered. “Why are you here?” Grandma sat on her couch, a quilt over her knees, looking frail. “Ava?” she said, confused. I knelt by her. “Why the letter?” She blinked. “What letter?” My heart sank. I turned to Rachel, who stood still. Grandma’s voice shook. “Rachel said you and Lily didn’t want to come.” The betrayal struck deep. Rachel had faked the letters, convincing Grandma we’d left her.
“You wrote them?” I asked, voice low. Rachel nodded. “She needs full-time care. I quit work, moved in.” I shouted, “So you lied? Forged her handwriting?” Rachel said, “Your visits aren’t enough.” I snapped, “Ask for help!” She admitted, “She wouldn’t have signed the new will.” Grandma gasped. “New will?” Rachel faltered. “You said it was insurance,” Grandma said, hurt. I called Lily and a lawyer, saying, “This is abuse, Rachel.” Grandma said, “You broke us.”
Lily came, and we stayed, showing Grandma the letter. She wept, thinking we’d forgotten her. “Never,” Lily said, holding her. We met a lawyer, canceled the new will, and secured the original, adding protections. Rachel stayed, subdued, trying to mend things, but Grandma’s trust wavered. I visited daily, Lily often, keeping Grandma loved. Her smile returned, but pain lingered. “I forgave Rachel,” she said, folding sheets, “but trust takes time.” I vowed to keep family close, to write a story of love, not lies, moving forward together.
