I Was Late to My Grandmoms Funeral, When I Finally Got to Her Grave, There Was a Small Package with My Name on It

The flight was torture. I couldn’t eat, sleep, or distract myself. My food tray sat untouched; the meals went cold.

I was numb.

Memories of Grandma—her stories, her embraces, her gentle wisdom—overwhelmed me. Despite my hopes, I arrived too late; the funeral was over.

“We couldn’t wait, Teresa,” Uncle Craig stated flatly when I called.

At her house, I was met with emptiness. My cousins had left in haste, leaving behind small reminders of their presence.

Grandma’s favorite chair by the window still held her blanket, neatly folded. An unfinished sock lay beside it, the lavender yarn still attached to the needles.

Touching the soft yarn, I broke down.

She had been here, knitting, possibly recalling old family stories.

I collapsed into the chair, clutching the sock as memories of her engulfed me. The pain was intense, yet I cherished it.

This pain was all I had left.

When the morning light broke, I composed myself and bought a bouquet of her favorite daisies. The drive to the cemetery was a blur of regrets and missed moments.

Her grave stood out, freshly dug.

At its base, I noticed a small package with my name written in her familiar script.

My hands trembled as I opened it, revealing a note.

“My dear Teresa,” it began.

Uncle’s voice had implied no more goodbyes. He’d always resented our closeness. Grandma’s message clarified everything: she knew our bond, and in anticipation, had left this package.

Inside was a gold wristwatch surrounded by tiny diamonds, with “Grandma and Teresa. Always and Forever” engraved on the back.