We had a party for her 100th birthday, but what she said after the cake made me feel sick.
At Grandma Elsie’s 100th birthday, the kitchen buzzed with celebration—streamers, cupcakes, and cheese platters abounded. Everyone wanted photos with her. In her wheelchair, she looked small but sharp. When I brought her favorite strawberry cake, she stopped me from blowing out the candles, whispering, “I need to tell you something.” Her serious eyes unsettled me. She hinted at secrets, saying, “Your dad isn’t who you think he is. I’m not either.” She urged me to visit the old house in the woods, where a box in the attic held the truth. The next morning, I
found it—a wooden box with photos and a letter revealing my dad wasn’t her son. My grandmother’s lover, not my grandfather, was his father. The truth hurt, but it was about love and protection. Back home, I confronted Grandma gently. She smiled, saying I was meant to know when ready. The truth, though painful, began our healing.
