I kept my word and dug up Grandma’s favorite rosebush a year after she passed away. I anticipated dirt, roots, and possibly some recollections from the past. Instead, what I discovered exposed a secret she carried with her to the afterlife, which triggered a series of events that fundamentally altered her life.
I’m 26 years old, and I’ve learnt throughout my life that family is more than simply your biological kin. My name is Bonnie. Who shows up when it counts is the key. And who doesn’t?
I was raised in a little northern Michigan town. Imagine wood-burning stoves, comfortable porches, and lengthy winters that made you a little more dependent on those around you.
Mary, my mother, worked as a school nurse. Our entire universe was held together by her mother, Grandma Liz. Despite her lack of wealth, she possessed a quiet strength that you could rely on when your knees gave out. Her silence alone has a way of warming the space.
Grandma was my safe haven, but I’ve always been close to my mom. After school, I would visit her home, assist her in folding laundry, or observe her slicing apples with the same paring knife she had been using since before I was even born. She always had a cinnamon and ivory soap scent.
It wasn’t until long later that I realized how strained relations were between Grandma and my Aunt Karen, her other daughter.
Mom was ten years Mom’s senior. After graduating from college, she left town and returned only when it was convenient for her. She pretended that our family was something she had outgrown, resided in a contemporary condo in Chicago, and wore pricey perfume that lasted long after she left the room. Nevertheless, Grandma never spoke negatively about her.
She would say, “She’s just finding her way,” as if the remark didn’t hurt, and smooth her skirt. However, I could see the pain behind her eyes.
Grandma really did give Karen everything she had. She saved money and worked hard to pay for education. She assisted her with rent, auto maintenance, and even a loan once she lost her job in her thirties. However, it was never sufficient. Grandma was often made to feel insignificant by Karen, who made her contributions seem insignificant and unworthy of gratitude.
Karen complained about the lack of central air and the wallpaper throughout the majority of her visit the final time she was home before Grandma became ill. Grandma continued to walk around the kitchen as if the insults hadn’t been delivered, never offering an explanation. Karen hardly touched the chicken and dumplings she still cooked, her favorite dish.
I was twenty-five when Grandma passed away. It affects you to watch someone you care about gradually disappear from the world. Little by little, it erodes you. The house felt like it was coming to an end. Though calm, it wasn’t serene. The silence was such that the walls seemed to be holding their breath.
She summoned me to her room one evening. I had to kneel next to her bed in order to hear her well because her voice was so weak.
“Sweetheart,” she said, her fingers lightly touching mine, “make a vow to move my rosebush after I’m gone.” One year later, dig it up. Remember.
Despite the tightness in my throat and the pain in my chest, I nodded. The expression in her eyes was firm, but I couldn’t understand why it mattered so much.
“I promise, Grandma.”
“And remember, the house—I’m leaving it to you and your mother,” she said, her voice scarcely audible. My will is with the lawyer.
My face started to well up with tears. I tried to reassure her that everything will work out. However, we both knew better.
Everything changed after she died.
Karen arrived like she had just stepped off the cover of a magazine. Her shoes clicked over the church floor as if they didn’t belong there, and she was wearing a black dress that most likely cost more than our entire monthly grocery budget.
She toured the house at the wake like a real estate agent, glancing at the china cabinet and the antique dresser in the hall.
She arrived at the front door with a clean folder three days after the burial. Her voice, icy and almost triumphant, will always be in my memory.
“I own the house. Mom let me handle it.”
She opened the folder and held up a will I had never seen before.
Mom and I were in disbelief.
“What are you talking about?” Mom’s voice trembled as she asked. “She told us—she said she left it to us.”
Karen’s eyes did not meet her smile. “Well, looks like she changed her mind.”
Grandma had told us about the original will, which we looked for everywhere. We looked in her bedroom drawers, the filing cabinet, and even the attic. Nothing. It seemed to have disappeared into thin air.
Of course, we considered fighting it. However, Karen possessed wealth, high-priced attorneys, and that arrogant confidence that made it seem futile to argue. With each memory wrapped in newspaper and crammed into cardboard boxes, we packed up our belongings. I had lost the only house I had ever known.
She transformed it into a rental within weeks.
On the opposite side of town, Mom and I moved into a tiny cottage. Although it wasn’t much, it belonged to us. But Grandma’s comment about the rosebush stuck with me.
For as long as I could remember, it had stood tall and proud in the backyard, with deep wine-colored blossoms. It was her favorite. As though it were an old friend, she would converse with it while watering it.
I was sitting on the side of my bed one night, looking at Karen’s name in my contacts on my phone. Despite my nausea, I hit the phone button.
On the third ring, she answered.
She asked impatiently, “What?”
“I… I would want to borrow Grandma’s rosebush, please. The rear one. I want to put it back by the cottage.”
A pause occurred. Then she sneered.
“Roses? I could care less if you took them. Just stop bothering me with this bullshit.
Click.”
That talk came to an end.
I contacted the tenants, Rachel and Mia, both of whom were in their 30s. They were gentle, compassionate, and had a deeper understanding of grief than I believe Karen ever did.
Mia responded, “Of course,” when I clarified. “Just let us know when you’re coming.”
It felt… weird the day I went back to Grandma’s yard. Not due to the tenants. They were beautiful. However, the house no longer felt like hers. Something had changed in the energy. It was farther away and colder. It seemed as though the home no longer knew me, even the wind.
As proud as ever, the rosebush stood in the same corner, close to the white fence. Pulling on my gardening gloves, I knelt down and muttered, “All right, Grandma. I’m present.
The ground was dry and rough. The spade resisted each time I tried to push it down. In the distance, I could hear birds and the sound of leaves rustling. My hands hurt as I dug further, and sweat streamed down my back.
Then it took place.
Clunk.
I felt cold when I heard it. I went cold.
It wasn’t a root. It wasn’t a rock.
With my heart racing, I leaned in and began using my hands to push the soil aside so I could see what was behind the rosebush.
Something was scraped by my fingers. Wood? No, metal.
The realization that this was more than simply a plant that Grandma wanted moved had my breath catch in my throat. Something was buried by her.
My breath caught when I glimpsed the edge of that corroded iron box after brushing away the last of the dirt. It was bigger than any tin I had ever seen, and it was jammed firmly into the ground. With my heart pounding in my chest, I let go of the spade and leaned forward. I rummaged around the edges until I was able to pull the box out, my gloves slippery with perspiration.
It was crusted with age and heavier than it appeared. It was closed with a heavy, rusty clasp. Grasping the lock with both hands, I sat back on my heels and attempted to pry it open. Despite the pain in my palms from the exertion, I persisted.
I gritted my teeth and murmured, “Come on,” as I pulled once more.
The clasp snapped loose with a start. I almost dropped the box as I stumbled a little, but I was able to stabilize it on my knees. The lid opened with a creak.
Everything was placed with care inside. On top was a folded letter that was obviously shielded from the wet dirt, but it had yellowed at the edges. Below it was a pile of paperwork that looked professional and were bound together with a ribbon.
I knew as soon as I saw the handwriting on the envelope.
Grandma.
My hands were shaking as I carefully unfolded the letter, tears in my eyes.
“Sweetheart,” it started, “you followed my instructions if you are reading this. My roses were moved by you. I anticipated that you would.
As the words became hazy, I bit my lip and blinked rapidly.
“I want you to know how proud I am of you and how much I adore you. Knowing your aunt, I made sure nothing could be twisted even though I left my will to the lawyer. A signed copy of my will is enclosed, as is this letter that I have signed. You and your mother own this house. I’m hoping that your mom and aunt have made up by now and that you two are content in the house I’ve worked so hard to maintain. Here is all you’ll need to show the truth, though, if things went south.
I put the letter against my chest and lowered it. The dam cracked.
She was aware.
Grandma had anticipated the treachery, the avarice, and the stolen will. And right beneath my aunt’s nose, she had prepared for it.
I spent a considerable amount of time sitting in the lawn, clutching the box as though it were a priceless relic. After regaining my composure, I moved to the rosebush, zipped the box into my backpack, and placed the papers back inside.
I said, “I’ll take you with me, too,” as I brushed the petals. “Let’s go home.”
After gently excavating the remaining roots, I wrapped them in burlap and placed them in a plastic container. My hands trembled, but not from fatigue. There was more to this. I hope. I finally had something to cling to after months of resentment and powerlessness.
When I returned to our tiny rental cottage, Mom was washing dishes in the kitchen. She appeared exhausted and had her hair tied up, yet she smiled at me.
As she dried her hands, she inquired, “You get the rosebush?”
I whispered, “I got more than that,” as I took the box out of my backpack and placed it gently on the table.
She sat down, wiped her hands on a dish towel, and looked at me bewildered. I gave her the letter after opening the lid.
Her fingers shook as she read. Slowly, then more urgently, her gaze moved over each line.
Her lips parted as she finished the statement. Carefully, she set the letter down and gazed at the papers beneath.
“Oh my God,” she said as she put a hand to her lips. “This is genuine, Bonnie. She wills this. Including her signature and all of that.”
Her eyes filled with tears, and before I knew it, she was in tears. Since the night Grandma passed away, I hadn’t witnessed her sobbing like that. It gave me power, but it also broke something inside of me.
I whispered, “There’s more,” as I laid out the other papers.
We headed into town the following day and scheduled a meeting with Mr. Leary, a local lawyer. He was clean-cut, in his early forties, and had the kind of no-nonsense enthusiasm that you hope to find in a lawyer. He decided to take our case on contingency after a quick conversation.
He looked through the papers and said, “I don’t usually say this in the first meeting, but this isn’t just a civil case.” We’re looking at fraud if what you’re saying me is accurate, which it certainly appears to be from these documents. Perhaps even forgery and conspiracy.
Mom appeared in disbelief. “Karen’s lawyer was in on it?”
Mr. Leary gave a nod. “Yes, provided that a phony will was employed to claim the estate in place of the authentic one. Additionally, this paper trail is robust.
I said, “What do we do next?”
He reclined in his seat. “We take them to court.”
The next few moments seemed to fly by. Mr. Leary brought in forensic accountants, document analysts, and handwriting specialists. The forged will was obviously written in a different manner and included a different signature than Grandma’s. Even worse, the lawyer who had managed the estate received strange payments, according to bank documents. They were substantial deposits with an unclear provenance.
Months passed during the trial. Wearing high-end clothing and hardly looking at us, Karen entered the courtroom with her typical arrogance. Her confidence, however, started to erode as the information was presented, piece by piece.
Her expression when the judge declared that the original will was legitimate and enforceable will always stick in my memory.
The house, our home, was once again ours. In addition, the judge mandated that Karen pay damages. This included reimbursement for the mental distress we had experienced as well as the rent we had previously paid elsewhere. Her whole plan had fallen apart.
Karen was charged with fraud and perjury, her lawyer lost his license, and the district attorney filed a criminal prosecution against her.
Mom gripped my hand so firmly as we left the courthouse that I felt like she might never release it.
“Grandma knew,” I muttered. “She knew exactly what Karen would do.”
Mom nodded, tears welling up in her eyes. She had faith in you. She was correct to do so.
We went back to the house a few weeks later.
At first, it seemed odd to step back through the door as if time had stopped. The building still had a subtle scent of ancient wood and lavender. Mia and Rachel, the tenants, came to say farewell one final time even though they had already packed everything.
Rachel whispered, “You saved that house,” to me. “Your grandma would be proud.”
I grinned. “She is.”
We negotiated a reduced rental price for the cottage for Mia and Rachel with our previous landlord. It seemed like the proper course of action.
Then came the day I returned home with the rosebush.
The white fence and the stone path in the backyard had the same appearance. I started digging after carrying the wrapped roots to the location close to the porch. The soil was softer this time, more welcoming.
As I placed the roots back into the dirt, I felt something settle inside me.
Like closure.
I brushed my hands on my jeans, rubbed the dirt down, and got up. Soft pink and orange hues painted the sky as the sun began to set. This time, the silence felt complete, as if the house were breathing once again.
I watched the little green shoots swinging softly in the breeze while I sat on the porch steps.
I felt at ease for the first time since Grandma passed away.
I had found the truth via her blooms. Even from the afterlife, her love had kept us safe.
Once more, the house was ours.
The garden was the same.