The Plant Grandma Left Me

One letter held a special clue: the tiny apartment she had once rented when she was twenty. She wrote of lace curtains, golden dust motes in the sunlight, and a loose floorboard under the bedroom window. “If it’s still there, it’s yours,” she had written.

I went. The building was still standing, worn but stubborn. The landlord let me in. My fingers pried up the warped plank, and sure enough, another box waited beneath.

Inside: bundled cash, tied with faded ribbon, enough to free me from my debts and let me dream again. Beneath it lay a black-and-white photo of my grandmother at twenty, cradling a small plant — the very same one sitting on my windowsill now.

I laughed through tears until my ribs hurt. She had given me more than money. She had given me a map to understanding who she was, and in turn, who I was meant to become.

From Plant to Bookstore

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