It came late on a Wednesday night. Just a quiet buzz from my phone, a single line in our family group chat—one I’ll never forget.
No emojis. No explanation. Just that.
The chat went silent. No replies from my mom, my aunts, my cousins. One by one, the little “seen” indicators appeared. And then—nothing.
I stared at the screen, waiting for someone else to respond. But no one did.
Two days later, something tugged at me. I sent her a quick message: “Hey Grandma, everything okay?”
She didn’t answer.
That night, she died in her sleep.
When my mom called the next morning, her voice was already breaking. I didn’t cry right away. I just sat there, numb, scrolling through our chat, staring at that last unanswered message.
Later, I drove to her apartment to help sort through her things. She’d always lived simply—a one-bedroom place on the edge of town, filled with crocheted blankets, faded photos, and the soft scent of lavender.
