Grandma Teri, I never really got to meet you. And when I did, you were on oxygen and breathing your last breaths. As a seven year old, that really is a sad sight to take in, although I wasn’t quite sure what death meant at that age, and I never knew it was permanent.

My mom never seemed to like you as her mother. All I would hear was how mean, careless, and immature you were. She seemed to have raised herself while you were sitting right there, absent. 

She talked about your frequent new boyfriends and bar trips, coming home so angry and mean for no reason. She was your emotional punching bag, and in some cases, physical too. You smoked and drank, gambled and lost. You pushed everyone who loved you away, even your own husband.

Through all of these stories I have been told, you would think I would hate you.

But I don't. 

I understand now why you were the way you were. Life is stressful. You were overwhelmed and did the first thing you could think of to drown out the stress and hurt. Although it wasn’t right, you chose the only option you thought you had.

The little pink flamingo. Mom told me you gave this to me when I was still in a crib, still crying, begging for attention from her and dad, unaware and uncaring of their own struggles. This stupid little stuffed animal soon became the most important material thing in my life, it gave me a friend when I felt alone and something to snuggle up with when I couldn’t sleep. It survived three moves, my parents divorce, being thrown into a storage container and me discovering it almost four years later. 

I was so mad at myself for forgetting about it. Forgetting you. I may not know you Teri, but you are in this stuffed animal and I can see it through the grit and determination that has kept it around. I wish I could meet you now, and develop my own grown opinion of my grandma, but the time is too late. I wish you could see me now and how far I’ve come. I hope you’re proud up there.

Maybe one day when my time comes too, I will get to finally introduce myself.