A full year after my grandmother passed, I finally kept the promise I’d carried in my heart since the night she whispered it to me: “After I’m gone for a year… dig up my rosebush.” At the time, I didn’t understand why, but I nodded anyway—when someone you love asks for something like this, you don’t question it. I thought it would be a quiet moment in the garden: dirt under my nails, memories swirling in my chest. I was wrong. It became so much more.
My name is Bonnie. I grew up in a small town in Michigan, where I thought family always protected each other. My grandmother was my safe place, the constant light in a life that often felt unsteady. But after she died, that light dimmed—and I realized just how fragile security can be.
The house felt different once she was gone, as if it was holding its breath. One night before she passed, she gripped my hand tightly and reminded me again about the rosebush. She’d arranged everything so the house would go to my mother and me. But after her funeral, grief hit first… and then shock.
Continue reading on the next page…