At my grandmother Katarzyna’s funeral, I felt engulfed by a sense of darkness, as if I were lost, unable to find my way. She wasn’t just family to me; she was my best friend, my whole world. Her embrace always made me feel safe, loved, and cherished. But now, standing near her coffin, I felt like I was only breathing half the air.
Last week, I found myself standing by her coffin, overwhelmed with memories. Just a month ago, we were sitting together in her kitchen, sipping tea and laughing as she shared her secret cookie recipe. “Emerald, my dear, she’s watching you now from the sky,” our neighbor Mrs. Anderson said softly, her voice thick with emotion.
But then, I saw my mother approaching the coffin. I watched her closely as she moved swiftly, placing something small and wrapped in cloth inside. After she stood up and glanced around, she silently left the room.
Something didn’t feel right. My grandmother and mother hadn’t spoken in years, and I knew my grandmother would never have allowed anyone to place something in her coffin without my approval.
As the funeral home gradually emptied and darkness settled over the room, I couldn’t shake the feeling that I needed to know what had happened. I stepped closer to the coffin, and under the folds of her favorite dress, I found the object my mother had placed there.
My hands trembled as I unwrapped it and discovered letters—letters that were clearly not meant for my grandmother. They revealed a hidden side of my mother, full of emotions and experiences she had never shared.
But the guilt weighed heavily on me. I knew my grandmother would never have wanted me to pry into these secrets. So, with a heavy heart, I carefully placed the letters back where I had found them, whispering softly to her, “Sorry, Grandma, some secrets must stay where they belong.”