The entire funeral froze. It wasn’t often that someone got up to speak that the family didn’t know, that the closest friends of the recently deceased had never heard of, but were now hearing from. The Man Upstairs hasn’t a figure of speech. He was standing at the podium, licking his lips in preparation for an unveiling of who my grandmother really was.

When I think about it now, someone should have stopped him. Someone should have gotten up and asked him to sit down. Hindsight is 20-20, but sight in the moment is muddied by emotion and made fuzzy by gut reactions.

“The woman that you knew as Margaret wasn’t Margaret. That wasn’t her real name….her first name.”

I looked over at my mom, she had gone from weeping and mourning to just weeping. This was clearly upsetting her, but it shouldn’t have. This couldn’t be true. And if it was all a lie, she shouldn’t have been upset. She should have been outraged.

But….Grandpa wasn’t doing anything. I could only see the back of his head from my seat. He hadn’t moved for most of the service, why wasn’t he moving now? Unless…Grandma wasn’t who she said she was.

So who was Grandma? How did this man know her? And why was he telling us all this now?