No family trips, no takeout, and none of those “just because” gifts other kids seemed to get. As I grew up, I noticed an unsettling pattern emerge in my life with Grandma.
I noticed an unsettling pattern emerge in my life with Grandma.
“Grandma, can I get a new outfit?” I’d ask. “All the kids at school are wearing these branded jeans, and I want a pair.”
“We can’t afford that, kiddo.”
That was her answer to every request for anything extra. I hated that sentence more than anything else in the entire world.
I grew angry at her for always saying NO.
I hated that sentence more than anything else in the entire world.
While the other boys wore trendy, name-brand clothes, I wore hand-me-downs.
My friends all had new phones, but mine was an ancient brick that barely held a charge.
Part 2:
It was an awful, selfish anger, the kind that made me cry hot tears into my pillow at night, hating myself for hating her, but still unable to stop the resentment.
She told me I could be anything I wanted, but that promise started to feel like a lie.
Then Grandma got sick, and the anger was replaced by a deep, sickening fear.
Grandma got sick, and the anger was replaced by a deep, sickening fear.
The woman who had carried my whole world on her shoulders suddenly couldn’t walk up the stairs without gasping for air.
We couldn’t afford a nurse or caregiver — of course, we couldn’t, we couldn’t afford anything — so I took care of her alone.
“I’ll be okay, kiddo. It’s just a cold. I’ll be up and kicking next week. You just focus on your final exams.”
Liar, I thought.
We couldn’t afford a nurse or caregiver, so I took care of her alone.
“It’s not a cold, Grandma. You need to take it easy. Please, let me help.”
I juggled my final semester of high school with helping her get to the bathroom, feeding her spoonfuls of soup, and making sure she took her mountain of medicine.
Every time I looked at her face, thinner and paler each morning, I felt the panic rise in my chest. What would become of us both?
One evening, I was helping her back into bed when she said something that disturbed me.
She said something that disturbed me.
She was shaking from the exertion of the short walk to the bathroom. As she settled down, her eyes fixed on me with an intensity I hadn’t seen before.
“Liam, I need to tell you something.”
“Later, Grandma. You’re exhausted, and you need to rest.”
But we never got a “later.”
“I need to tell you something.”
When she finally died in her sleep, my world stopped.
I had just graduated from high school, and instead of feeling excited or hopeful, I found myself stuck in a terrifying liminal space that felt like drowning.
