As my relatives argued over Grandma’s inheritance, I brought home her cherished dog and discovered the hidden truth she meant only for me.

The day Grandma died, the world seemed strangely quiet. Quiet in a way that felt wrong — as if the air itself knew something irreplaceable had slipped away.

She had been the anchor of our fractured family for decades, the steady voice who held everything together even when people pretended not to need her. In truth, everyone needed her.

They just remembered it too late. I stood beside her grave as the last handfuls of earth fell, holding the leash of her old dog, Berta. The dog whimpered softly, ears drooping, eyes fixed on the fresh mound of dirt.

If grief had a sound, it would have been that fragile whine. Berta had been Grandma’s constant companion, her shadow, her guard.

Grandma often said, “This dog is the only soul I can rely on.” It used to sound dramatic. As I got older, I realized it was simply honest.

My extended family arrived at the funeral dressed in black, but their emotions were anything but somber. They exchanged glances, whispered, checked their watches.

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