My very wealthy grandmother had promised to inherit all her possessions. For three years, I fed her, bathed her, and stayed by her side. Then she died, leaving me nothing. The next morning, her lawyer gave me a garage key, and what I found inside devastated me.
The apartment was silent that Tuesday evening, so silent that the hum of the refrigerator seemed louder than it should have been.
I was sitting at my small kitchen table, piles of unpaid bills spread out like a deck of cards I couldn’t win with.
On the shelf above the stove, a yellowed photograph of my parents watched over me, as it had every night since I was seven years old.
My name is Emily, and I’ve always been tired.
An old photograph of my parents watched over me.
After my parents died, my grandmother, Margaret, took me in. She owned a chain of grocery stores spread across three counties. We had money, but I never saw a penny of it.
I still remember the day I told him I had been accepted to university.
