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An Open Letter To My Grandmother
Why were you such a… nasty woman?
Dear Wilma,
Let’s face it: I never had the milk-and-cookies grandma. That’s not what you were, and you never apologized for it.
I’d like to start this letter by telling you about your memorial service. I’m not sure if you remember this, but uncle Chip told quite the story about you. When he first started dating my aunt, your daughter Les, he brought you a box of chocolates as a courtesy. “I brought you chocolates, Ms. Smylie!” he told you, nodding his head out of respect.
Your response: “The name’s Wilma, and don’t bring me anything ever again.” Welcome to the family, pal!
His story was by far the most honest of anyone. If you’d been there, you would also have heard me delivering a heartfelt speech about how I didn’t really know you, but that you were an important part of my life anyway. But the thing is, I did know you. Everyone did. At that service, the elephant in the room was that you were kind of… well… a bitch.
For starters, you didn’t let any of us grandchildren call you grandma. You insisted on using your first name instead because you were in denial about being over 70 years old, and probably also wished your five kids would stop having more damn kids already.
