After the funeral, the bills started piling up. I had no idea how I’d survive. Then that call came. At the office, Ms. Reynolds told me the truth: “Your grandfather wasn’t poor. He was saving.”
Eighteen years earlier, he had opened an education trust in my name and contributed to it every month.
She handed me an envelope with a letter in his shaky handwriting. He explained every “no,” every sacrifice. The house was paid for. My tuition was covered. He had built my future in silence. That week, I applied to a social work program—the dream I once told him about. “I’ll save them, Grandpa,” I whispered. “Just like you saved me.”
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