applepie

I've felt the need in the past few days to tell a story that is very close to my heart and has claimed its own little bit of me. It is a story of my mother's parents and their place, or lack there of, in my life. I seek neither pity or absolution in the telling, so please do not feel the need for either. The story is a series of mistakes from all people and one that really just ended in tragedy.

I have no memory of my mother's parents from my childhood. The reason is that I didn't see them. When I was very young, I wasn't yet two, there was a viscious argument between my mother and her parents. My father was already banned from their house (they didn't like him much) so he had little part in it. The conclusion of the argument resulted in my mother being told to never come back and to take her children with her. I've no memory of the argument, but to this day, I can not tolerate people I love fighting. It will bring me to tears unlike anything else can. Years went by with little or no contact between the two parties. My mother continued to send pictures of my sister and I as well as cards at the holidays. Nothing was ever returned, and through other family members we knew that our pictures were on display in the house.

As a child, the fact that they kept our pictures always gave me hope that there was some love for me. As a young child I begged my mother for a chance to meet them. I was convinced, with a child's certainty, that if they would just visit all would be mended. I was maybe eight or nine when my mother finally invited them for Christmas. I was broken when they didn't show. They never responded, and my mother had warned me to not get my hopes up. I was a child who didn't know better. My hopes were raised anyway, and it was a sad little girl who celebrated Christmas that year. I remember crying myself to sleep that night because I was so overcome with sorrow. The next day I was composed, but a little piece of my heart had hardened towards these people who I dearly wished to call my grandparents.

It was a number of years after this incident that my mother recieved a box from them. It was once again around the holidays, so I though maybe peace was to be made. I was only fourteen, and I still was optimistic about the situation. My hopes were soon dashed when I chanced to peek at the contents of the box. Within were all the pictures they had accumulated of us over the years. There was also a nasty letter to my mother blaming her for all the trouble. They held her totally at fault for them not being in our lives. Though I grieved that they no longer had any token of us, the letter gave me hope. No matter how they placed the blame, I was left thinking that they wanted some relationship with me and I continued to believe that they loved me.

It was another two years before I would be confronted with my mom's parents. I had just turned sixteen and was driving my very first car. I believed that I finally had a chance to get to know them. I had decided that if they couldn't or wouldn't come to me, then I would go to them. I was unable to get their address from any of my family, but my mom allowed me access to their phone number. She made me promise that I would only visit after first calling. She feared for my safety if I were to just appear on her dad's step. So, being the optimist, I called. It was her dad who answered the phone, and I'll never forget what he said. I asked if this was Jack who I was speaking to. He told me it was, and then he inquired about who I was. Upon finding out that I was my mom's daughter he informed me that I was never to call them again. He wanted nothing to do with her (my mom) brats until she could apologize. He then hung up, and I never spoke with him again. At sixteen, I was filled with anger and hate for the treatment I recieved. I had been told to not expect anything, but I was young and I still held a child's hope of being loved by their grandparents. That phone conversation ended those hopes, and they were replaced by a cold indifference.

Another two years passed and I didn't speak to or about my mother's parents. Then my mom's grandfather died. I didn't know him, but my mom wanted to go to the wake and funeral. I was five or six months pregnant at the time, and my protective instincts were in overdrive. I refused to allow my mother to face everyone, mainly her parents, alone. My dad was unable to attend, so I insisted on going with her. I foolishly though that I was immune to hurt by her parents, and I was going to offer support to my mom. It gave me a chill to see her father glance our way and then narrow his eyes a look away. It was painful to be ignored by someone who, I now had to acknowledge to myself, I still wanted to have some semblance of a relationship with. We made it through the wake, but it was yet another cut to my still bleeding heart.

More years passed, and I had no contact with them. I stubbornly refused to send any pictures of myself or my son (I'm not sure if my mom did, but I tend to think she may have). I did not notify them when I became pregnant with my daughter or when she was born. My mom started to go to visit around last Christmas. She knew her parents were ill and decided to do whatever was necessary to spend some time with them. I was once again placed in the situation of wondering about a relationship. By this time, I dreaded the idea of seeing them when I returned home to live. I didn't want people who could be so cruel around my own children, but I planned to visit, at least once, to put my own issues to rest. I looked upon it as a chore, but I felt it was necessary that I visit the people who I spent most of my life longing for.

This past Valentine's Day, they killed themselves. The each shot themselves in their home with shotguns. My mom was notified, and she immediately called me to tell what had happened. To my sorrow, I found that I felt nothing. I had spent my life yearning to call them my grandparents. Now they were dead, but I felt nothing towards them. I might as well have been told the same news about a complete stranger. The only thing I could feel was relief and joy. It was over... The toxic cycle that had been my lack of a relationship with them was at an end. I wouldn't have to wonder if they actually cared for me anylonger. I had discovered that over the years they had chipped away the part of my heart that could have been theirs. I was joyous to know that I had no responsibility, no matter that it was in my head, to allow them to see my own children. I didn't have to attempt to rebuild what had long been destroyed. It was truly at an end. It was a tragic end to what I see as their tragic lives. They were unable to love anyone more than themselves, and when they died, no one grieved too terribly. Even their own children were thankful that their reign of cruelty was at an end.

So here's my tribute to them. To my [I]grandparents[/I]

I wish them to be given all that they gave to others, may they enjoy the cruelty they gave so freely and mourn the love that they denied. May they rest in the cold bed that they made, and may the fires of hell keep them warm.