My father flung my grandmother’s savings book onto her open grave as if it were worthlessIt’s useless,” he said, brushing dirt from his black gloves. Let it stay buriedThe entire cemetery fell silent.Rain ran down my cheeks—maybe tears, maybe not. I was twenty-six, in the only black dress I owned, standing among relatives who had spent the whole funeral whispering that Grandma had “wasted her last years” raising meMy father, Victor Hale, looked at me with the same cold smile he wore when I was twelve and begged him not to sell Grandma’s house.