Grandpa called me that evening.
I let the call go to voicemail.
His message lasted only nine seconds.
“You don’t have to call back, Greta.”
So I didn’t.
For nearly three years, I worked night shifts making bread for a commercial factory.
I attended family dinners.
Listened to Derek talk about another successful property sale.
And politely smiled whenever Mom mentioned my failed business.
Grandpa occasionally tried asking whether I was still baking.
But my mother always interrupted.
“She doesn’t want to talk about that, Walter.”
I thought he agreed with her.
A few weeks before his death, Grandpa asked me to keep the first Saturday in April free.
“I want to take you somewhere,” he said.
“Where?”
He smiled.
“You’ll see.”
I even replaced my windshield wipers because I knew we’d be driving for several hours.
But Grandpa passed away before April arrived.
And now, at his funeral lunch, I was waiting to learn what he’d left behind.
