I used to think my grandmother was simply frugal — the kind of woman who would rather stay home in worn slippers than join us for dinner at a restaurant. She’d smile, wave us off, and insist she “wasn’t hungry,” settling back into her old cardigan like she preferred the company of silence over a crowded table. I rolled my eyes more times than I can count. I thought she didn’t like going out, didn’t want to spend the money, didn’t care about being part of the bustle of family life. I had no idea she was out there quietly propping up other people’s lives while we assumed she was just being her eccentric self.Family games
After she died, the truth stepped right through the front door.
A woman none of us recognized stood on our porch clutching a crumpled photo and crying so hard she could barely speak. Her name was Janine. She lived three blocks away, in the cramped apartment complex behind the church. And the words she managed to get out knocked the breath out of us.
“Did you know she bought groceries for my kids every month for three years?”
We didn’t know. We knew nothing. The living room still smelled like Grandma’s lavender soap, and suddenly we realized how little we understood the life she lived outside our house.
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