“You ruined my life.”
All I had as a parental figure was my grandma, her mother, who smelled like cinnamon and called me her little star. She was the main source of softness in my world.
My grandma brushed my hair at night, tucked me in when storms rolled through, and whispered the words my mother never said: “You are loved.”
Growing up, I heard things no child should ever hear, like “I could have been someone if not for you” and “I wasn’t ready to be a mother.”
My mom didn’t bother trying to hug or comfort me; that’s why I’m thankful for my grandma.
“I wasn’t ready
to be a mother.”
But when Grandma passed away, everything felt colder. Linda stopped even pretending she cared. I stopped crying over it around the time I was 17.
The pain dulled, but it never disappeared.
Thankfully, I had my Aunt Rebecca, Mom’s younger sister, who was nothing like her. Rebecca was warm, funny, and so easy to talk to.
