you will remember that we are your family.”
I read the sentence twice.
Then I placed Grandma’s letter beside it.
My parents had spent years defining family as a reward they could grant or withdraw whenever I challenged them.
Grandma had defined it differently.
To her, family meant telling the truth when lies would be easier.
It meant protecting someone’s future even when you might not live to see them use it.
It meant leaving proof for a young woman who had been trained to doubt her own memory.
I did remember who my family was.
That was why I no longer needed my parents to tell me.
