The first line took my breath away completely.
“My dear granddaughter, I knew it would be you who found this. I’ve kept this secret for thirty years, and I am so deeply sorry.”
The letter continued, breaking my heart piece by piece.
“Forgive me, I am not who you believed me to be.”
Grandma Bess’s letter was four pages long. By the time I finished reading it twice, I had cried so hard my vision had gone blurry.
Grandma Bess was not my biological grandmother. Not by blood, and not even close.
My mother, a young woman named Lyra, had come to work for Bess as a live-in caregiver. She described my mom as bright, gentle, and a little sad around the eyes.
“When I found Lyra’s diary, I understood everything I hadn’t seen,”
Grandma wrote.
