Some childhoods are golden. Mine wasn’t—until Grandma Grace changed everything.

At six, she took me from chaos and brought me home. She came to every play, packed notes in my lunch, and sold her necklace to buy my college textbooks. When she died, I was 26 but felt six again.

At her will reading, Delia got the house. Cynthia got the car. I got a photo in a frame. Hidden inside? Stock certificates, keys, and a note: “Real treasure isn’t loud. Love, Grandma G.”

The safety deposit box revealed properties, investments, and ownership of the land under Delia’s house.

I became her landlord.

Still, I helped. Bought the house. Renovated it into Grace’s Corner—a soup kitchen and safe haven, filled with her warmth.

One day, Cynthia came. Broken. I offered her a place—not for her past, but for who she could be.

Just like Grace did for me.