Every birthday, Grandma slipped a $1,000 deposit receipt into my card and told me it was for my future. After she died, the teller checked my account twice before saying it was empty. But the withdrawal date matched a photograph I’d once answered with a heart, so I made one careful call from my car.
On my eighteenth birthday, Grandma handed me an envelope before she’d even finished making pancakes.
“Open it.”
“Can I eat first?”
“No.”
That was Grandma Daisy. Presents were serious business.
ON MY EIGHTEENTH BIRTHDAY, GRANDMA HANDED ME AN ENVELOPE.
Inside was a birthday card with two puppies wearing party hats.
A bank deposit receipt slipped out.
$1,000.
“Grandma.”
“What?”
“You did it again.”
“Of course I did.”
A BANK DEPOSIT RECEIPT SLIPPED OUT.
I looked at the coat hanging beside the back door. Brown wool, older than some of my friends, with three visible patches.
“You need a new coat.”
“I’ve got a coat, Margot dear.”
“It has three patches.”
“Then it’s got three good repairs.”
“YOU NEED A NEW COAT.”
I laughed despite myself.
She tapped the receipt.
“This is for your future.”
Grandma had opened the savings account for me when I was little. Every year, no matter how tight things were, she managed another thousand dollars.
“THIS IS FOR YOUR FUTURE.”
“Promise you won’t touch it until I’m gone,” she said. “While I’m here, I’ll take care of you.”
“I don’t like when you say that, Grandma.”
“Then I’ll say it faster next year.”
I promised.
“WHILE I’M HERE, I’LL TAKE CARE OF YOU.”
***
Grandma had been taking care of me since I was four.
That was when my mother, Victoria, left me at her house.
“Just until I get settled,” Mom said.
She got settled.
Remarried.
Had two more daughters.
Bought a house.
But she never came back for me.
GRANDMA HAD BEEN TAKING CARE OF ME SINCE I WAS FOUR.
Mom wasn’t completely absent. Sometimes I almost wished she had been.
She appeared at Christmas. Called on birthdays. Took me to lunch every few months and asked about school as though she’d missed a parent-teacher conference instead of most of my childhood.
Meanwhile, Grandma did the actual work.
MOM WASN’T COMPLETELY ABSENT.
She taught me to drive.
Sat awake when I had the flu.
Helped me through my first breakup.
Clapped louder than anybody when I got into nursing school.
Every birthday came with another card.
SHE TAUGHT ME TO DRIVE.
Another receipt.
Another thousand dollars.
Then Grandma got sick.
I put nursing school on hold.
I worked extra shifts and spent the rest of my time with her.
GRANDMA GOT SICK.
One afternoon, after another bill arrived, I called Mom from the hospital hallway.
“I need some help.”
“What kind?”
“Grandma’s expenses are piling up. Even if you could cover groceries for a while, or come stay with her so I could work another shift…”
“I NEED SOME HELP.”
Mom sighed.
“Margot, things are tight here too.”
“I know. I’m not asking you to pay everything.”
“I have my own family to think about.”
I stopped looking at the bill.
Her own family.
“I HAVE MY OWN FAMILY TO THINK ABOUT.”
“Okay.”
“Don’t be like that.”
“Like what?”
“You know what I mean.”
I did.
That was the problem.
***
Grandma died four months later.
After the funeral, I found her last birthday card in my desk.
GRANDMA DIED FOUR MONTHS LATER.
The deposit receipt was still tucked inside.
I’d kept every one.
I was supposed to be returning to nursing school, and for the first time, the promise I’d made to Grandma allowed me to touch the money.
I’D KEPT EVERY ONE.
So I went to the bank.
The teller pulled up the account.
Then she frowned.
She typed something.
Checked again.
“I’m sorry, ma’am.”
“What?”
THE TELLER PULLED UP THE ACCOUNT.
“The balance was withdrawn several months ago.”
I thought I’d misunderstood her.
“All of it?”
“Yes.”
“There must be a mistake. Please check again.”
She did.
I THOUGHT I’D MISUNDERSTOOD HER.
My hands settled on the edge of the counter.
“Who withdrew it?”
The teller checked the account holders, then the withdrawal record. Grandma had opened the savings account when I was little, with Mom listed as an authorized adult. Years later, Grandma added me but never removed her. I’d forgotten Mom’s name was still attached to it.
“WHO WITHDREW IT?”
The teller looked at me. “Your mother took it all months ago.”
Mom had remembered something I hadn’t.
She had taken the money.
All of it.
I asked for the date.
