I was six when my parents died, and my grandfather stepped in without hesitation, raising me as his own despite his age and limited income. We lived simply, and he often told me, “We can’t afford that,” whenever I asked for something extra. I resented those words growing up, believing we were always just barely getting by. When he became ill during my final year of high school, I cared for him until he passed away, terrified about how I would survive alone with bills piling up and no clear future.

Two weeks after his funeral, I received a call from a bank representative who told me my grandfather had been hiding something. Instead of debt, he had secretly built an education trust in my name for nearly two decades, sacrificing comforts so I could attend college. In a letter he left behind, he explained that every “no” had been part of a larger plan to fund my dream of becoming a social worker. The trust covered my tuition and living expenses, and for the first time since his death, I felt hope instead of fear. His frugality hadn’t been scarcity—it had been love in its most determined form.