She approached as if she were walking through glass.
“I’m sorry,” she said. Her voice cracked, just barely.
I stared at her.
“We were so mean,” she said. “And we thought it was harmless.
But it wasn’t. And I… I’m sorry.”
Behind her were others.
Tyler, who once drew a cartoon of my grandma holding a mop. Marcus, who used to joke about “my five-star cafeteria chef.” Even Zoey, who once made a TikTok mocking my grandma’s voice.
They all looked the same now — red-eyed, ashamed, and small.
“We didn’t think,” Zoey mumbled. “She was just…
always there.”
Tyler nodded. “And we took her for granted. I feel sick about it.”
I didn’t know what to say.
Part of me wanted to scream. Another part wanted to tell them they didn’t deserve to feel sad. But then I thought of Grandma.
I thought of her calling the kids “sweetheart” even when they didn’t answer.
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