There’s a corner of me that woke up feeling hurt this morning.
The rest of me doesn’t hurt at all.
I learned recently that my maternal grandfather died. From Ancestry where I’ve built a family tree, and a kind, polite message of condolence through it from an otherwise unknown relative — the granddaughter of my grandfather’s twin.
That didn’t hurt though. In fact, my appreciation for the kindness of strangers and curiosity about getting to know this cousin has increased exponentially. As did my amazement at how something like this even happens.
I was not estranged from my grandfather. Not directly at least. Up until his dementia made him dependent on other people in the last six or seven years, we talked with fair regularity. I always sent a birthday card for him, and something I thought he might like with a card at Christmas. I always sent photos of my son — his great-grandson — with brief letters. I called. He’d answer and we’d talk. He was an amazing, loving, loyal man.
But things were different when I saw him last, when my paternal grandmother passed five years ago. His robust frame was growing thin. Though he was always polite and so generous with his smile, there were many moments when he would come into the room and see me and I would hear him whisper to my grandmother, “Who is that?”, and hear her snap in irritation, “That’s your granddaughter, Gord.”
Though his wife, my grandmother, and his daughter, my mother, and even my sister are all still alive, I learned he’d died from an email notification from Ancestry.
You see, I am the black sheep. Cambridge English Dictionary defines blacksheep as someone who has done something that brings embarrassment or shame to his or her family.
I’m a single mom of one near perfect son (my opinion, of course). Twice divorced — once from a narcissist, once from a man-child I knew I shouldn’t marry, but also felt pressured to do so. I’ve worked and paid for my own things since I was 16. I own my own home and two cars. I have a retirement and a 529 for my son. I love animals and have pet-children I keep and care for into their graves, regardless of the expense or difficulty. I was a good student. I have 3 college degrees and a handful of Board certifications. I pay a student loan payment that’s larger than my mortgage and all my other bills in full every month. I’m a hard worker. I’ve never done drugs, even once. I’m not an alcoholic or a prostitute. I’ve never been to jail.
I’m the blacksheep because these women say I am.
My sister stopped talking to me this July because her son, my nephew, was upset by something my son did. Not even an argument between she and I, though over the years, she’s done plenty of things to me without apology that weren’t particularly nice — stolen money, clothes, jewelry. Bad talked about me to my friends. Stopped talking to me for months or years because she was in a bad mood, or jealous because my parents were mad at her but not at me at the time.
I agreed that my son owed my nephew an apology, but disagreed that my sister should send me a text message about the offense four hours after it had occurred and suggested that the entire thing might have been better addressed at the time, in person, where we might have facilitated a positive, direct exchange between the two boys, rather than this, between us, in text.
She blew up my phone. Backed out of plans for exchanged house and pet-sitting.
I made no reply. I found a house and pet-sitter and quietly wondered how she thought that was the appropriate way to treat someone — anyone — let alone family.
She hasn’t spoken to us since. Yeah, my son is included now too. Didn’t respond to invitations to my son’s events or requests to play. Didn’t invite us to any of my nephew’s events. And when my grandfather died, though she knew, she didn’t tell me.
She posted my grandfather’s death on Facebook, where both my son and I could see it. Amid all the great times she’s having with my nephew, parents, grandmother. The things I — and by default of parentage, my son — are not welcome to share.
My mother, and by tacit agreement, my father, stopped talking to me four years ago. At my son’s 3rd grade violin concert. Because I got the time wrong.
God’s truth.
I explained to her that that was the time the school had posted. She could see it on their website herself. I forwarded the email. Like my sister, she blew up my phone. Sent text after text calling me ungrateful and disrespectful. Accusing me of “always” doing this to her and my father (I’ve actually never heard him say a single word along these lines). The list of insults went on and on.
I agreed with her. I apologized.
My parents stood in a different place in the auditorium, rather than sit in the seats I’d saved with me when they arrived. After the concert, my mother pulled my best friend aside and proceeded to rail at her about how horrible I am. When my best friend disagreed with her, my mother told her she was stupid. So now three of us are ostracized.
She still refuses to talk to me, my son and even my best friend. She actually pays to return by mail any cards and gifts I send. Never attends events. Completely ignores us upon incidental meeting.
It’s not the first time she’s done this to me either. The last time she didn’t speak to me for a year because she got angry at my son’s father when my son was born.
Needless to say, I didn’t hear from her (or my father) when my grandfather died.
My grandmother, she never really talked to me. I’d call on her birthday. At Christmas. Send gifts and photos. If my grandfather answered the phone, sometimes she’d talk, but as he grew more forgetful, she grew distant. When we did talk, I got an earful about what she’d heard from my mother.
I didn’t hear from her when my grandfather died. This is how I’ve caused embarrassment and shame to my family. This is how I’m the blacksheep.
So this morning, it hurt that my grandfather has died. Normal grief for the slow erosion and loss of an amazing man. Despite that I didn’t meet him until I was 14 (that’s a whole other story of this nonsense between my mother and my grandparents), he was a light in the world. One I hope some tiny increment of lives on in me and in my son.
It doesn’t hurt that these women perpetuate uncivilized, toxic exchanges. It doesn’t hurt that they don’t talk or interact with me, except as it hurts and confuses my son. Even he, at 14, understands you can’t change other people.
I’m excused from those massive anxiety-inducing exchanges. At peace to find or create sanctuary and stability in my life, and free to offer it to my son, my bestie, other friends, other people.
What it is, to be the blacksheep, is a relief.
