The cold spot in our family was my aunt Karen—ten years older than Mom, Chicago condo, heavy perfume, light gratitude. Grandma paid for as much as she could: college, rent when times were bad, even a “temporary loan” that outlived its promises. Karen visited like a critic, not a daughter—picked at the wallpaper, wrinkled her nose at the lack of central air, barely touched the chicken and dumplings Grandma made just for her. Grandma never snapped. “She’s finding her way,” she’d say, smoothing her skirt like the words didn’t sting.

Near the end, when the house had that quiet that isn’t peaceful, the kind that holds its breath, Grandma called me to her room. Her hand was paper-thin and warm.

“After I’m gone, sweetheart,” she whispered, “move my rosebush. A year to the day. Promise.”

“I promise