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.

"You are like a mother and daughter."

I had birthday cakes with my name written in icing. The money for the photo day was folded in an envelope. Notebooks and pencils were needed for the start of the school year.

The people at church smiled and said, "You are like mother and daughter."

"She's my daughter," Grandma said. "That's all."

We had rituals.

Sometimes she would fall asleep in the middle of a chapter.

Sunday tea with too much sugar. Card games where she "forgot" the rules as soon as I started losing. Trips to the library where she pretended to look for books for herself, then ended up in the children's section next to me.

In the evening, she would read aloud to me, even though I could have read it myself.

Sometimes she would fall asleep in the middle of a chapter. I would take the book, mark the page, and cover it with a cover.

"Roles reversed," I murmured.

"Don't act smart," she muttered, her eyes still closed.

And then I turned 15 and decided that wasn't enough.

It wasn't perfect, but it was ours.

Then I turned 15 and decided that wasn't enough.

Everything changed when the parking lot changed.

Suddenly, status at school was measured in cars.

Who was driving. Who was being dropped off. Who was getting out of a shiny car and had their fingers stained with the ink of their bus pass.

"She's not really the type to have money for her car."

I was clearly part of the last group.

"Why don't you just ask him?" my friend Leah said to me. "My parents helped me get one."

"Because my grandmother counts every single grape she puts in her basket," I replied. "She's not exactly the type to be able to afford a car."

But jealousy was eating me up inside.

So, one evening, I tried my luck.

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