Ten Minutes Before Grandma Was Pushed Into the Crematorium

Ten minutes before they wheeled Grandma into the crematory furnace, Adam James, the boyfriend I'd loved for five years, sent me a transfer over text.

The amount: two thousand dollars.

There was a long voice message with it:

"My mom's blood pressure spiked and she collapsed. I'm at the ER and I can't get away.

"Use this to buy Grandma a nicer urn."

I stared at the transfer box on the screen, my palm going numb.

Grandma was the only person in this world who ever loved me.

Last week, from her hospital bed, she'd held Adam's hand.

His eyes had gone red as he swore to her.