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“What are you thinking about?” Denise asks, placing her hand over mine.
And there’s the opening I need to tell her, to finally unleash the hurt and confusion. I open my mouth to speak, but courage evades me.
Instead, I say, “I missyiayia.”
I do. It’s an honest confession, even if it isn’t the right one.
“I’ll always be grateful that you pushed me to reconnect with her.” Denise held a lot of resentment for the way our extended family never stepped in to help.
I can recognize the mistakes my grandmother made, wanting to do whatever it took to keep the peace—to keep us in her life. Especially considering no one knew the full extent of the horrible upbringing we were subjected to.
“Life is short,” I whisper words I despise.
Lifeisshort. But long enough to live through the consequences of your actions.
