At my grandmother’s funeral, I saw my mother discreetly slip a mysterious package into the coffin. When I later took it out of curiosity, I didn’t expect it to reveal heartbreaking secrets that would haunt me forever.

They say grief comes in waves, but for me, it hits like missing steps in the dark. My grandmother, Caterina, wasn’t just family; she was my best friend, my world. She made me feel like the most precious thing in the world, wrapping me in hugs that felt like home. Standing by her coffin last week, I felt lost, as if learning to breathe with only half of my lungs.

The soft light in the funeral home cast delicate shadows over my grandmother’s peaceful face. Her silver hair was styled just as she used to wear it, and someone had put her favorite pearl necklace around her neck.

My fingers traced the smooth wood of the coffin as memories washed over me. Just last month, I was standing in her kitchen, sharing tea and laughter while she taught me her secret sugar cookie recipe.

“Smaranda, dear, know that she’s watching over you from above,” said Mrs. Andrei, our neighbor, placing a wrinkled hand on my shoulder. Her eyes were red behind her glasses. “Your grandmother never stopped talking about her precious granddaughter.”

I wiped away a tear. “Do you remember those incredible apple pies she made? The whole neighborhood knew it was Sunday just by the smell.”

“Oh, those pies! She’d send you over with slices for us, beaming with pride. ‘Smaranda helped with this,’ she’d always say. ‘She has the perfect touch for cinnamon.’”

“I tried to make one last week,” I admitted, my voice trembling. “It wasn’t the same. I wanted to call her to ask what I did wrong, and then… the heart attack… the ambulance came and—”

“Oh, my dear.” Mrs. Andrei pulled me into a warm hug. “She knew how much you loved her. That’s what matters. And look at all these people here… she touched so many lives.”

The funeral home was, indeed, crowded, filled with friends and neighbors sharing stories in hushed voices. I spotted my mother, Victoria, standing off to the side, checking her phone. She hadn’t shed a tear all day.

While I was talking to Mrs. Andrei, I saw my mother approach the coffin. She glanced around carefully before leaning over it, slipping a small package inside. When she straightened up, her eyes scanned the room quickly before she left, her heels making soft sounds on the wooden floor.

“Did you see that?” I whispered, feeling my heart start to race.

“See what, dear?”

“Mom just…” I hesitated, watching her disappear into the women’s restroom. “Nothing. I think the grief is playing tricks on me.”

But the feeling of unease settled in my stomach like a cold stone. My mother and grandmother barely spoke in recent years. There was no way my grandmother would have asked for something to be placed in the coffin without me knowing.

Something wasn’t right.

The evening shadows stretched across the funeral home windows as the last mourners slowly filed out. The smell of lilies and roses lingered heavily in the air, mixing with the perfume of those who had left.

My mother had left an hour earlier, saying she had a migraine, but her behavior earlier gnawed at me like a splinter under my skin.

“Miss Smaranda?” Mr. Popescu, the funeral director, appeared next to me. His kind face reminded me of my grandfather, whom I lost five years ago. “Take all the time you need. I’ll be in my office when you’re ready.”

“Thank you, Mr. Popescu.”

I waited until his footsteps faded before approaching my grandmother’s coffin again. The room had a different atmosphere now. Heavier, full of unspoken words and hidden truths.

In that silence, my heartbeat sounded loud. I leaned closer, examining every detail of my grandmother’s peaceful face.

There, barely visible under the fold of her favorite dress—the one she wore at my college graduation—was the corner of something wrapped in blue cloth.

I was filled with guilt, torn between loyalty to my mother and the need to honor my grandmother’s wishes. But my duty to protect my grandmother’s legacy weighed more.

With trembling hands, I carefully removed the package and slipped it into my bag.

“I’m sorry, Grandma,” I whispered, touching her cold hand for the last time. Her engagement ring glinted in the light, a final flicker of warmth she had always worn.

“But something isn’t right here. You taught me to trust my instincts, remember? You always said the truth matters more than comfort.”

At home, I sat in my grandmother’s old reading chair, the one she insisted I take when she moved to a smaller apartment last year. The package lay in my lap, wrapped in a familiar blue handkerchief.

I recognized the embroidered “C” in the corner. I’d seen her sew it years ago, as she told me stories of her childhood.

“What secrets are you hiding, Mom?” I murmured, carefully undoing the worn thread. My stomach churned at what was about to unfold.

Inside were letters, dozens of them, each addressed to my mother in my grandmother’s distinctive handwriting. The paper was yellowed at the edges, some creased from being handled repeatedly.

The first letter was dated three years ago. The paper was firm, as if it had been read many times:

“Victoria,

I know what you did.

You think I haven’t noticed the missing money? That I haven’t checked my accounts? Month after month, I’ve seen small amounts disappear. At first, I told myself it must be a mistake. That my daughter wouldn’t steal from me. But we both know the truth, don’t we?

Your gambling needs to stop. You’re destroying yourself and this family. I’ve tried to help you, to understand, but you keep lying to my face while taking more. Remember last Christmas, when you swore you had changed? When you cried and promised to seek help? A week later, another 5,000 lei were gone.

I don’t do this for the money. I do it because I’ve lost my daughter. The sweet girl I held in my arms, who told me her innocent secrets. Now, I look at you and see only the shadow of a stranger, someone willing to manipulate her mother for dirty gains.

You have one more chance, Victoria. If you don’t admit what you’ve done and change, the truth will come out. And next time, I won’t stay silent.

Caterina.”

Every word stung my eyes. I knew my mother and grandmother’s relationship was strained, but this?

I cried, clutching those letters, wishing I could erase the pain.