BLAME

She meant it as a spell. The girl heard it as blame.

A few weeks before she died, the grandmother sat her down.

“It’s my fault,” she said. Her voice soft, like an apology. “I gave it to myself. If I’d spoken my truth… listened to that little voice… followed what I knew in my gut…”

She paused. Looked away. Then said it:

“This wouldn’t have happened.”

She meant it as a whole thing. A story with a shape. A warning carved from regret. A kind of magic spell—the kind that only works if spoken aloud before the end.

But the girl didn’t hear it that way.

She caught each line like it was meant for her. Each sentence sinking in, slow and sharp. They curled under her skin. Nested there. Seeds of blame dressed as wisdom.

It would take years. A heartbreak or two. A grief of her own.

And then one day—while folding laundry or walking alone or crying quietly in the wrong bathroom—she would understand:

The message wasn’t guilt.
It wasn’t even about her.

It was a map. A mercy. A spell passed down.

And if she could just break it open—

She might finally hear the truth:

Love yourself.

And the rest will follow.