My mom, Delia, chased bad men and worse instincts. My sister Cynthia was sharper, louder. I was quiet—just a shadow.

At six, Grandma Grace took me home. She wasn’t a place, she was home. She supported me in every way—notes in my lunchbox, attending every recital, selling her necklace to pay for college. When she died, I was 26 but felt lost like a child again.

At the funeral, Delia cried loudest for show. Cynthia wore fake tears. Then came the will: Delia got the house, Cynthia the car. I got an envelope—a photo of me and Grandma at the zoo.

At the house, Delia bragged, but I found a hidden envelope in the photo frame: stock certificates, bank statements, a key, and a note—“Real treasure isn’t loud. Love, Grandma G.”

I resigned from work, opened a safety deposit box—rental properties, shares, and deed to land beneath Delia’s house.

Delia exploded when I told her. Cynthia lost the car and money to a gambler.

I bought the house, renovated it with Omar, and opened Grace’s Corner—a soup kitchen and refuge.

One day, Cynthia came for help. No money, but a place to stay.

Grace taught me: sometimes stepping in means hope, not giving up.