I grew to hate those words more than any others.
While other girls wore new sneakers and brand-name tops, I wore hand-me-downs donated by a neighbor. My phone was old and slow, with a cracked corner and a battery that seemed to faint every afternoon.
I loved him. I knew he had saved me. But I still resented the “no” that met me at every turn.
He told me I could be anything I wanted. Yet a little voice in my head whispered, If we can’t even afford a pair of jeans, how are we ever going to afford college?
When Everything Started to Change
My senior year of high school, Grandpa began to slow down.
At first, it was small. He’d need to rest halfway up the stairs. He’d sit down carefully and rub his chest, saying he just needed “a minute.”
Then it got worse.
He was out of breath more often. His hands shook when he lifted a glass. Sometimes he winced and pretended I hadn’t noticed.
We didn’t have extra money for a full-time caregiver or nurse. According to him, we barely had enough for the essentials as it was.
“I’ll be fine,” he insisted one evening when I tried to talk him into seeing another doctor. “Just a little bug. I’ll be back to my old self in no time. You worry about your final exams. I’ll worry about my old bones.”
But I didn’t say it out loud.
Instead, I helped him up and down the hall. I cooked simple meals and fed him when he was too tired to lift a spoon. I sorted his pills into little boxes marked with the days of the week. I studied at the kitchen table with one ear open, listening in case he needed me.
The man who had carried me through my childhood now needed me to help him stand.
One evening, after I’d walked him back from the bathroom and settled him into bed, he reached for my hand.
“Lila,” he said, his eyes more serious than I’d ever seen. “I need to tell you something.”
“Later, Grandpa,” I replied, blinking back tears. “You’re worn out. Just rest, okay? We’ll talk tomorrow.”
But we never got that “tomorrow.”
A House, a Stack of Bills, and No Plan
I graduated from high school the week after his funeral.
Other students were taking pictures in caps and gowns, talking about dorm rooms and majors. I sat on my bed in a dress that felt too tight and wondered how I was supposed to keep the lights on.
Grandpa had left me the house. That much I knew. But houses come with responsibilities — bills and taxes and repairs.
The envelopes started to arrive one by one:
water,
electricity,
property tax,
insurance.
I opened them with trembling hands and stared at the numbers, my mind spinning. I had no job yet, no savings, and no idea where to start.
One afternoon, two weeks after the funeral, my phone rang. The caller ID showed a number I didn’t recognize.
“Hello?” I said, expecting maybe a distant relative.
“Hello, is this Lila?” a woman’s voice asked. “My name is Ms. Reynolds. I’m calling from the bank regarding your late grandfather.”
The bank.
My stomach dropped. Suddenly, all those years of “we can’t afford that” sounded different in my ears. Had he been drowning in debt all this time, too proud to say anything? Was I about to find out that I owed money I could never repay?
“Did he… owe something?” I asked, my voice thin. “Is there a problem?”
“We really should talk in person,” she replied gently. “Are you able to come in this afternoon?”
“Yes,” I said, even though my knees suddenly felt like rubber. “I’ll be there.”
