They were both there — two grandmothers, two women who carried time in their eyes and stories in their hands.
People often say that a grandmother’s love is the purest thing in the world — soft, endless, and unconditional.
But mine was different.
It wasn’t cruel, but it wasn’t warm either. It simply… existed, like a distant winter sun: visible, but never close enough to feel its heat.
I remember family gatherings where laughter filled the air. The table overflowed with food, conversations, and noise — and yet, somehow, I always felt invisible.
She would call my cousin by the sweetest nickname, ruffle their hair, offer them an extra piece of dessert.
When her eyes turned to me, they carried the same politeness one gives a neighbor’s child — kind, but detached.
I used to wonder if I did something wrong, if maybe I hadn’t earned her affection the way the others did.
So I tried harder — I smiled wider, I greeted her first, I complimented her garden — but her gaze never lingered long enough to notice.
As a child, I told myself she was tired, or distracted.
As a teenager, I thought she just didn’t understand me.
Now, as an adult, I realize she simply loved in a way I couldn’t feel — uneven, selective,
perhaps shaped by old stories I was never told.
People often say that a grandmother’s love is the purest thing in the world — soft, endless, and unconditional.
But mine was different.
It wasn’t cruel, but it wasn’t warm either. It simply… existed, like a distant winter sun: visible, but never close enough to feel its heat.
I remember family gatherings where laughter filled the air. The table overflowed with food, conversations, and noise — and yet, somehow, I always felt invisible.
She would call my cousin by the sweetest nickname, ruffle their hair, offer them an extra piece of dessert.
When her eyes turned to me, they carried the same politeness one gives a neighbor’s child — kind, but detached.
I used to wonder if I did something wrong, if maybe I hadn’t earned her affection the way the others did.
So I tried harder — I smiled wider, I greeted her first, I complimented her garden — but her gaze never lingered long enough to notice.
As a child, I told myself she was tired, or distracted.
As a teenager, I thought she just didn’t understand me.
Now, as an adult, I realize she simply loved in a way I couldn’t feel — uneven, selective,
perhaps shaped by old stories I was never told.