“It is absolutely not your fault.”
I sat across from Grandma and took her hand.
She’d asked me not to spoil Daniel’s wedding, but I couldn’t leave her without money for her medication.
“It’s my fault.”
“Where are the receipts?” I asked.
She brought out an old cookie tin filled with receipts for butter, eggs, fondant, gold leaf, and the sugar flowers.
I added them up, then asked how many hours she’d worked.
“Three days. Most of each day,” she said.
“Where are the receipts?”
I counted out enough cash to cover the supplies and pay her for her time.
Grandma stared at the bills.
“Sweetheart, that’s… this isn’t your bill to pay.”
“Don’t worry about that. Please buy your medication.”
“What about the wedding?”
Grandma stared at the bills.
“I’ll take care of that.”
She squeezed my hand.
