If you’d told me a year earlier that my life would turn into something like a personal mystery story centered on my grandmother, I would have laughed. Evelyn was steady. Predictable.
The kind of person who made the world feel less chaotic just by being in it.
I remember feeling small in a way that wasn’t just physical. Small like the world was too big and too loud, and I had no idea where I fit.
Evelyn took me in without hesitation.
No long family meeting. No debate. No questions about whether it would be hard or inconvenient.
She simply said, “Come home, sweetheart,” and home became her little house on the edge of town.
From that moment on, she was my anchor.
She taught me how to cook when I was too sad to eat. She taught me how to stand up straight when grief bent my shoulders forward. She taught me how to look people in the eye and say no when they tried to take advantage of me.
She was strict in a way that made me feel safe, like her rules were a fence keeping the worst parts of life out.
And she had one rule that never, ever changed.
