My grandma was the cheapest woman in the world. After she passed away, I inherited a $50 gift card.

I was going to give it away, but for some reason, I decided to use it. My life split into ‘before’ and ‘after’ that moment. The cashier’s face went pale when I handed her the card.

Cashier: ‘This can’t be, where did you get this??’
Me: ‘Uh… It was my grandma’s.’
Cashier: ‘STOP EVERYONE! IN FRONT OF US!’

The world seemed to freeze. Conversations halted, carts stopped rolling, and a heavy silence fell over the store. My heart started to pound in my chest. People around me stared, their expressions ranging from curious to confused. I gripped the counter, unsure whether to stay or bolt out the door.

The cashier motioned to her manager, who quickly made her way over. She whispered something to her, her eyes never leaving the gift card in my hand. The manager, a middle-aged woman with kind but sharp eyes, looked at the card and then at me.

Where exactly did you get this?” the manager asked, her tone careful but firm.

I felt a bead of sweat roll down my temple. “I told her—it was my grandma’s. She passed away recently, and this was among her belongings. Is something wrong?”

The manager glanced at the cashier, who nodded, and then she leaned closer, speaking in a hushed tone. “This isn’t just any gift card. This card has… a very specific history.”

I blinked, unsure how to respond. “What kind of history?”