“Why won’t you tell me about my father?”

“Because the truth is a burden. You’re lucky you don’t remember,” my grandmother says.

“I think I deserve to know where I come from. What if I have family? What if they can tell me important medical information?”

“All I know is you have two brothers and they’re much older than you.”

“Seriously?”

“Don’t ever tell your mother I told you this!”

“Well, what else?”

“Nothing else! If your mother or grandfather knew I was telling you all this they’d blow through the roof!”

“But it’s my life, my story!”

“A burden.”

My grandmother died Wednesday, and I’m not going to lie, there are so many things I kept hidden away inside me because I was worried about what she or my parents would learn if I write about it… but she’s gone, and now I feel a little bit more comfortable sharing.

It’s really, really sad that this is the case, that people need to die for me to be comfortable writing about certain things, but that is my personal struggle, and I’m doing the best I can.

If you’ve enjoyed any of my work, please consider having a coffee with me.

I’m on a mission to post 1,000 100 word stories! Follow this publication to keep reading them.

I’m experiencing with different writing styles, as long as they all add up to exactly 100 words, and trying a new AI image generator to help keep looking the same around here. I hope that doesn’t steer you away from my words.