I’m 25, and two years ago, after my grandma passed, I learned something about family: sometimes the ones who say they love you most are the first to erase you, and sometimes the quietest person in the room—like my granddad—is carrying the pain nobody else notices.

After Grandma’s funeral, my dad and stepmom, Linda, moved into Granddad’s house. Dad said it was to “help him manage things.”

“It’s just temporary,” Dad told me. “Until he gets back on his feet.”

But within weeks, I saw changes. Grandma’s photos disappeared one by one. Her china vanished from the dining room. When I asked, Linda just shrugged.

“We boxed it up,” she said. “It was just collecting dust.”