Grandma sat across from me, the tray balanced on her lap, sunlight pouring in through the curtains like it was staged. She was smiling—too much, almost—picking at her eggs like everything was fine.
Then, out of nowhere, she set the fork down, folded her napkin with care, and said it: “This is the last meal I’ll ever have in this house.”
I froze.
I thought maybe she was joking, but she wasn’t laughing. She just kept sipping her juice, eyes locked on me like she was waiting for me to understand.
When I asked what she meant, she didn’t explain.
Instead, she slid an envelope across the tray toward me. It was sealed, heavy, and had my name written in her careful, looping handwriting. My hands shook when I picked it up.
“Don’t open it yet,” she said softly, her voice steadier than mine. “Not until you’re ready.”
The way she said it made my stomach twist. Ready for what?
I tried to get her to explain, but she just smiled that strange smile again, stood up slowly with the help of her cane, and started clearing her plate. Like it was just another morning.
The rest of the day felt haunted. Every corner of the house seemed different, like it was holding its breath. She didn’t say anything more about the envelope, and I didn’t dare push. But I kept staring at it, tucked in my pocket, heavy like a stone.
That night, I went to bed with it on the nightstand. I couldn’t sleep. My mind kept circling back to her words. The last meal. Why say it like that? Why give me something in secret?
By morning, I decided I couldn’t wait. I tore the envelope open.
Inside was a letter. The first line made me sit straight up in bed:
“If you’re reading this, it means you couldn’t resist. That’s okay. I counted on it.”