My brother and I walked into our Grandmothers small, but expensive house. We weren't greeted by the smell of freshly baked cookies, or the feeling of love that a normal grandmother's house contains. Instead, stale air smacked our faces and we saw the carefully decorated house. Our grandmother walked down the steps, with a small smile on her face, like the one a bad actress has in a crummy part. I had never noticed how small and frail she seemed. After closer inspection, I noticed her face was covered in wrinkles and even for her age she looked old. She had a weird blondish color in her hair, clearly the work of a cheap dye.

At dinner there were two cakes, chocolate and vanilla, and as usual, she had labeled each of them. I couldn't help but giggle. Not only because the difference is clear, but because it reminded me of 'the cake incident of 1999.' I was about six and my uncle decided it would be funny to switch the nametags at her Christmas party even though he's said himself, 'she's as crazy as a loon.' When Grandmother discovered he had switched the tags she threw a fit and demanded he call every single guest and personally apologize. We all knew the drill, have meaningless conversations, act like you care, eat dinner, and then see each other in another year.

Over dinner we all shared the expected awkward silences that accompanied talking with Grandmother. Occasionally I would make a mistake and say something slightly rude. A few moments later I could feel her eyes burning into the side of my head. I didn't dare look, knowing full well I wouldn't want to see her disapproving face. The strange thing is, after all the tough times I've had with my grandmother, I still love her.