A few weeks before she died, my grandmother—frail but sharp as ever—called me into her room. Her hands trembled as she held mine, and in a voice softer than I’d ever heard, she asked, “Can you lend me a little money? I need to buy something important.”
I didn’t hesitate. I handed her $200—more than I could comfortably spare at the time—but she was my grandma. Of course I would help. She smiled, tucked the cash into her sweater pocket, and said, “You’ll understand one day.”
I didn’t know it then, but that small act of trust would become one of the most beautiful, heartbreaking gestures I’d ever witness.
The Gift She Never Got to Give
After she passed, my mom found a sealed envelope taped to the back of Grandma’s Bible. Inside were 12 crisp $20 bills—exactly $240—and a note in her looping cursive:
“For my great-grandbabies’ first books. Tell them stories. Read to them often. Love, Nana.”
She never had great-grandchildren. None of us did. But she believed, with all her heart, that they would come.
She didn’t spend the money on medicine, comfort, or even a final treat for herself.
She saved every penny—and added $40 of her own—to give a gift to children she knew she’d never meet.
She was buying hope.
She was investing in a future she wouldn’t see, but wanted to touch anyway.
Why It Broke My Heart (In the Best Way)
