My Dearest Granddaughter,
Perhaps there is something horrendously wrong with me. Some odd glass ball within my soul that sparkles so beautifully in the light, yet shatters on impact in the face of loss. For years I have carried the shattered remnants of the mistakes that I have made. The sins I must atone for. I suppose I owe you an explanation. I wish I could tell you that all these events are the unaltered truth, but I have waited far too long to write these thoughts down. All I have for you are my memories, or what little is left of them.
Your Grandpa has been gone for ten years. I know I could have shared this with someone earlier. Still, I couldn't bring myself to tell your mother how these events had transpired. I would never be able to handle looking at her face when I told her, and I don't believe she would understand. You and I, we've always been close. Perhaps something entrenched in our DNA makes us so similar. I pray that the story I share with you is one you will understand. I love your Grandpa Ken. As I tell you this, I don't want you to doubt that for a second. But, he was not my first love, my first heartbreak, or even my greatest love.
Before your Grandpa, there was Mark Ramos. He rolled into my life like a hot summer thunderstorm and the fallout was torrential. Of all the boys I ever knew, he was the only one I ever gave myself over to completely. I didn't know what I was getting wrapped up in, I didn't understand all one boy could do, and I didn't realize the damage that would be left in his wake. Mark was my first kiss, my first night on the town, the first boy to take me to bed, the first boy that made me think I knew what love truly was. It broke my heart when it all fell apart. It hurt to watch our little town turn against him. It stung when he turned against me. Yet, most of all, it shattered me when I took the last sparkles of life from his eyes as I killed him.
It's not fair that I tell these things to you. I know. Nonetheless, I ask that you listen to my story before you make any decisions. After you have read what little I remember, do what you must. If you're reading this, I have gone to see your Grandfather or Mark. Whichever is waiting for me in death. My darling, as one last favor to me, don't let this story die with me.
With Love,
Your Grandma Margaret
Taylor looked down at the worn diary in her hands. She remembered seeing the book next to Mimi Margaret's knitting table as the cancer began to take its hold. By the time they had caught the ovarian cancer, I had already spread to Mimi's lungs. It robbed her of the hymns she used to sing every Sunday at church. It crept up the lining of her abdomen forcing her into a curled-up ball of pain. By the end, even saying "I love you" was far too painful for the woman that had given birth to three children and raised five. Mimi was sweet. Too sweet. She baked cookies for the school bake sale even when she could barely stand. She welcomed strangers into her home. She volunteered at a local soup kitchen and snuck candy to the unruly kids at church during communion. She didn't commit murder. Mimi didn't kill people. Mimi wouldn't kill people.
Yet, here in the softly worn pages that smelled like Grandma Margaret's lotion, scrawled in Mimi's handwriting, it said exactly that.
"as I killed him"
Taylor slammed the diary closed. Four words. They made her throat go dry, her breath catch, and her stomach turn. She wondered if she should tell someone. Her mom? No. Mimi was clear that her Mom wasn't ready for this. The police? Taylor had nothing to tell them.
"Hey my Grandma died just 2 weeks ago, but I think she killed somebody. Yeah, that Grandma. Grandma Margaret. Staple of the community, I know. Evidence? Oh, I have none. Just some scribbles in a diary she wrote while the cancer spread through her brain."
Even Taylor knew they would think she was properly crazy. They might even think something had spread to her brain. Right now she could do nothing. Mimi always said there was time for action and a time for listening. For now, she would just need to listen to Mimi's story. First though, she would need a proper cup of tea.