When my mom dropped me off at Grandma’s house, she casually said, “Play Uno with your grandma.” I shrugged, thinking it was just her way of keeping me entertained. Grandma was already shuffling the cards when I walked in, her eyes twinkling like always.

We played hand after hand. She laughed when I stacked Draw Fours, teased me when I forgot to say “Uno,” and told stories between rounds. But something felt different—like she was trying to squeeze a lifetime into a single afternoon.

As the sun set, she finally said, “I wanted to see you smile one more time, sweetheart.” I looked at her, confused. That’s when she handed me a small envelope. Inside was a note: her will, naming me as the one to keep her house. “It’s not just a game,” she whispered. “It’s a memory.”

She passed away a week later.

Now, every time I see a deck of Uno cards, I remember what we were really playing for—love, time, and goodbye.