"My name is Mrs. Caldwell. I'm calling from the bank about your late grandfather."
My heart stopped beating.
Bank. Debt collection. Of. Debts.
I closed my eyes. Of course. There had to be a catch. All those years of barely surviving, maybe he was riddled with debt, too proud to admit it to me.
"I'm so sorry," I blurted out. "I know I have to take responsibility. Just tell me how much he owed. I'll find a job. I'll put a repayment plan in place."
There was a brief silence.
"He didn't owe anything," she said softly. "Quite the contrary. Your grandfather was one of our most regular and disciplined customers."
I frowned. "I don't understand."
"I think it would be best if you came," she replied. "There are some things we need to discuss in person."
My stomach was in knots the whole way to the bank.
Mrs. Caldwell was a middle-aged woman with gentle eyes and neatly combed grey hair. She led me into a small study and closed the door.
"First of all," she said, placing her hands on the desk, "I would like to offer you my sincerest condolences. Your grandfather often spoke of you."
I swallowed. "About what?"
"About your future."
She slightly turned her computer screen so I could see it. Rows of numbers filled the screen.
“Eighteen years ago,” she continued, “your grandfather created a restricted education trust in your name. He has been depositing money into it every month ever since.”
