I’m sitting in my dead grandmother’s closet. It’s been almost a month and I still haven’t cleaned out her place.
I haven’t even started and I’m already emotionally drained. A shoebox in the corner catches my eye. Hoping for a killer pair of vintage shoes, I grab the box and lift the lid. It’s filled with old family photos.
The photo on top is of two women who look a lot like my grandmother…and me.
On the back in faded ink are the names Elizabeth and Stella. Grams never mentioned them. She’d always told me everything. Or so I thought.