My dad never allowed us to meet grandma. He always said, “Consider her dead,” whenever I asked about her. Mom would just stay quiet, her eyes heavy with something I didn’t understand. Growing up, I assumed my grandmother must have been a terrible person. Why else would my dad cut her off completely?
Years later, after finishing nursing school, I began working at a local hospital. One busy afternoon, I was scanning the list of new patients when a familiar last name caught my eye — my own. My stomach dropped as I read the first name beneath it. It was hers. My grandmother. My hands trembled as I made my way to her room, unsure of what I’d find.
When I stepped inside, I didn’t see the monster I had imagined all these years. Instead, there was a frail, kind-eyed woman lying in bed, looking both surprised and relieved to see me. Through tears, she told me the truth: my father had cut ties with her because of a misunderstanding from years ago. She had tried to protect him from someone who hurt their family, but he misread her actions as betrayal. Rather than explain, she stayed silent, hoping time would heal the wounds.
As I listened, my heart ached. The woman my dad told me to forget wasn’t cruel at all—she was selfless and deeply misunderstood. That day, I promised her I’d help her heal, both physically and emotionally. And I knew, someday, I’d try to help my father heal too, so our family could finally find peace after years of silence and pain
