My paternal grandmother was a real character. She was known for saying “well sheeeeeeeeeeeyit” and for wearing some of the ugliest moo moos ever made. She was a rough woman. She grew up in poverty and raised her children in poverty. She developed a mindset of taking care of herself and her children first. No one else mattered, not even her grandchildren.
I can remember watching my father eat a huge meal, as I fought back tears and tried to keep my grumbling stomach quiet. She heard my stomach growl and snapped at me that I should keep it down so he could enjoy his meal. If I was lucky, I might get his leftovers. No matter what he did to me, she supported him, always reminding me that he was more important. As far as I was concerned, she was just as evil as he was.
Needless to say, I cut contact with that entire side of the family as soon as I could. It’s been over a decade since I’ve spoken with my grandmother, and I haven’t regretted it one bit. I have a pretty happy life without all of their drama.
This past weekend, I received a call saying she was dying. I struggled with my feelings. On one hand, that’s further proof that that chapter in my life is through. On the other, it’s wrong to feel a sense of relief about a family member’s death, right? After talking with some very awesome friends, I realized that I deserve that sense of relief. She let me go through hell, and I had to fight every step of the way to get out of that family and their criminal mindset. I’m free now, and I’m not going back. I’m sorry her life is ending before she can try to fix the many wrongs she has done. I really am, but I won’t miss her when she’s gone.
I’ve decided that I’ll donate money to the domestic violence shelter that helped us escape. Lord knows her sons drove enough women there, with her full support of every punch, kick, and stab.
Just a note: I’m sorry if you find this post offensive. I don’t buy into sugar-coating the lives of people who have died. That’s the same as dismissing the wrongs they have done to others.