My grandmother raised me alone after I became an orphan – three days after her death, I learned that she had lied to me my whole life.

And suddenly, I was six years old again.

"My daughter, " she began.

If you're reading this, it means my stubborn heart has finally given in. I'm sorry to leave you alone again.

Again?

I frowned, but I carried on.

Before I tell you this difficult thing, I want you to remember one thing: you were never unwanted. Not for a single second.

And suddenly, I was six years old again.

"They didn't feel a thing."

When I "became an orphan".

It was a rainy day. The adults were speaking in hushed tones. A social worker told me there had been "a serious car accident."

"Instantly," she said. "They didn't feel a thing."

I remember staring at the stains on the carpet rather than at her face.

Then Grandma came in.

His house seemed like another planet to me.

Small. Grey bun. Brown coat that smelled of cold air and laundry detergent. She knelt down to be at eye level.

"Hi, little one," she said to me. "Are you ready to come home with me?"

"Where is the house?" I asked.

"With me," she replied. "That's all that matters."

His house seemed like another planet to me.

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