When he finally died in his sleep, my world stopped.
I had just graduated from high school, and instead of feeling excited or hopeful, I found myself stuck in a terrifying liminal space that felt like drowning.
I stopped eating properly.
I stopped sleeping.
Then the bills started arriving — water, electricity, property tax, everything.
I didn’t know what to do with them.
Grandpa had left me the house, but how would I afford to keep it? I’d have to get a job immediately, or maybe try to sell the house just to buy myself a few months of sheer survival before figuring out my next move.
Then, two weeks after the funeral, I got a call from an unknown number.
A woman’s voice came through the speaker. “My name is Ms. Reynolds. I’m from the bank, and I’m calling regarding your late grandfather.”
A bank. Those words I’d hated so much, “we can’t afford that,” came rushing back, but with a terrible new twist: he was too proud to ask for help, and now I would be held responsible for some massive, unsettled debt.
The woman’s next words were so unexpected, I almost dropped my phone.
“Your grandfather wasn’t who you think he was. We need to talk.”
“What do you mean, he wasn’t who I think he was? Was he in trouble? Did he owe someone money?”
“We can’t discuss the details over the phone. Can you make it this afternoon?”
“Yes, I’ll be there.”
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