I looked at my phone.
There were seven missed calls.
Three from Pamela.
Two from Dustin.
Two from Dad.
A message appeared while I was staring at the screen.
Dad: You embarrassed the family by skipping the reception.
I did not answer.
Another message followed.
Your grandmother would have wanted us together.
I almost threw the phone.
Grandma had spent her final weeks asking whether I could visit when Gregory was away.
He knew that.
He knew she feared his temper.
He knew how much she dreaded the sound of his car in the driveway.
Yet he was using her memory to demand obedience.
My phone vibrated again.
Pamela: Please don’t start another family problem.
Then Dustin sent a photograph.
It showed several relatives sitting around a restaurant table.
There were drinks, appetizers, and smiling faces.
My father sat at the center.
Dustin had added a caption.
Guess we know who inherited the funeral expenses.
I placed the phone facedown.
Then I cried.
Not the graceful kind of crying people describe in condolence cards.
I cried until my throat hurt.
I cried for Grandma.
I cried for the years she had spent defending me.
I cried because I had allowed my father to convince me that my needs were excessive.
Most of all, I cried because I remembered the last time I saw her fully awake.
Two nights before the funeral, the hospice nurse had called.
Grandma had been restless.
She kept asking for me.
I hurried to her house.
The bedroom smelled faintly of lavender soap and medication.
A small lamp glowed beside her bed.
Her knitted cardigan hung over a chair.
Grandma looked impossibly small against the pillows.
I sat beside her and took her hand.
She opened her eyes.
“Samantha.”
“I’m here.”
She tried to smile.
“You came.”
“Of course I came.”
Her fingers tightened.
Then she glanced toward the hallway.
“Is Gregory here?”
“No.”
She relaxed slightly.
I noticed.
But I told myself she was simply tired.
She watched me for a long moment.
“You have to promise me something.”
“Anything.”
“Don’t let him find it.”
I thought she meant her will.
Or her jewelry.
Or perhaps some personal letters.
“Find what?”
“The book.”
“What book?”
She struggled to breathe.
“The blue one.”
I leaned closer.
“Grandma, I don’t understand.”
Her eyes filled with tears.
“Don’t let him tell you who you are.”
I brushed damp hair from her forehead.
“He can’t.”
She looked at me with such sadness that I felt suddenly young.
“He already has, sweetheart.”
I wanted to ask what she meant.
Before I could speak, footsteps sounded in the hallway.
Grandma’s hand tightened painfully.
Then my father’s voice came from the doorway.
“What’s going on in here?”
She released me.
I turned.
Gregory stood with his coat still on.
Pamela was behind him.
Neither looked surprised to see me.
My father glanced toward Grandma’s bedside table.
Then he looked at us.
“Having a secret meeting?”
“No,” I said.
He stepped into the room.
“Good. Because the nurse says Mother needs rest.”
Grandma turned her face toward the wall.
I stayed another hour.
She never mentioned the blue book again.
The following morning, she was barely conscious.
She died shortly before dawn.
At the time, I believed her final words were simply the confused worries of a dying woman.
Now the passbook lay open before me.
Her warning was written in ink.
And I could no longer pretend she had been confused.
