The message came late one night: “Does anyone have a little to spare? I need $60 for something important,” my grandmother wrote in our family chat. No emojis, no explanation—just that. The chat stayed silent. No one replied. Two days later, I texted her, “Hey Grandma, everything okay?” She didn’t answer. That night, she passed away in her sleep.
When I went to her apartment, I found her small, tidy home filled with crocheted blankets, photos, and the faint scent of lavender. On the kitchen table sat a neatly wrapped box with a note addressed to me: “Thank you for remembering me.” Inside were two leather-bound sketchbooks and a set of pencils—the very ones I had been hoping to buy but never did.
Another note read: “You always believed in my stories. I wanted you to have the tools to tell your own.” It hit me then—her $60 request hadn’t been for bills or groceries. It had been for me. She’d spent her last money on a gift to inspire my creativity. Sitting there, I remembered her stories, the ones she read to me before bed, filled with courage and hope. For the first time, I understood: she believed in me long before I believed in myself.