Part 2The Heir of the Hidden Sweater

Six years.

I took care of Grandpa for six years.

It started the year I graduated from college. He had his first stroke, which left the entire left side of his body paralyzed.

Nana complained that playing nurse was too exhausting.

Dad said he was too busy with his corporate job.

Bradley lived two states away and said his career couldn't take the hit.

So, I stepped up.

Every weekend, I drove out from the city to the suburbs. Forty minutes, each way, for six years. Over three hundred weekends.

I cooked his meals for the week and froze them.

I helped him shower.

I helped him walk out to the garden so he could feel the sun.

I drove him to every cardiology and neurology appointment.

I paid for his prescriptions every month.

I bought his wheelchair out of my own pocket. Two thousand dollars.

I bought the adjustable medical bed so he could sleep upright. Three thousand, five hundred dollars.

He was hospitalized three times.

The first time, eight days. My co-pays and the out-of-pocket home care costs came to four thousand. I paid it.

The second time, twelve days. Six thousand dollars. I paid it.

The third time. The last time.

The ICU. Nineteen days.

Another eight thousand.

I paid that, too.

In total, over twenty-eight thousand dollars of my own savings.

In those six years, I never asked Bradley for a dime.

I never asked Nana for a cent.

I didn't think I needed to ask. I thought they saw what I was doing. I thought it meant something.

I was wrong.

How many times did Bradley visit in those six years?

Four.

Four times. And he never stayed longer than two hours.

The first time, he sat on the couch for thirty minutes, took a "work emergency" call, and bolted.

The second time, he took three selfies with Grandpa and posted them to Instagram with the caption: Cherishing every moment with my hero.

The third time was Thanksgiving. He ate the turkey I cooked, didn't wash a single plate, and left before pie.

The fourth time was the day Grandpa died.

And his first question was about the money.

I remembered something Nana said to me during Grandpa’s second hospital stint. I had called her to say I was putting the medical bills on my credit card for now.

Nana had sighed into the receiver. "You're a good girl, Brianna. Taking care of your grandfather is your duty."

My duty.

Six years, twenty-eight thousand dollars, and three hundred weekends of my twenties.

My duty.

Bradley shows up four times, posts a few photos, and walks away with a hundred and fifty thousand dollars.

His right.

I took the sweater back to my cramped apartment. I laid it on my bed.

I sat on the edge of the mattress, my thumb tracing the worn, pilled wool of the collar.

Suddenly, the memory of Grandpa clutching my sleeve flashed in my mind.

What was he trying to say?

What did he want to tell me in those final seconds?

I couldn't sleep that night. It wasn't just the sheer injustice of it all keeping me awake.

It was the smell.

The sweater smelled like Grandpa—that familiar mix of laundry detergent and old-spice aftershave. But beneath that, there was a sharp, overwhelming scent of mothballs.

It was strong. Too strong.

A sweater he wore every single day, one that I washed for him constantly, shouldn't reek of mothballs.

Unless...

Unless it hadn't come out of his everyday closet.

Unless it had been stored away somewhere else entirely.