Isn’t it funny how you can miss something you never even had?
You never met your granddaughter. You didn’t have a chance to. I would not have let you.
How odd to know that you now exist only in memories. Such a big life now condensed. Captured in faded and bent photographs, just as damaged as you were.
They say she acts just like me, the way I did at her age. They fill in the gaps for me. My childhood lost to time.
And so I rely on stories. Tales I’ll never tell her. Until one day she asks me - mama, where is your mother?
And then I’ll have to choose, what do I tell this sweet child? The truth, all pockmarked and raw? A gentler version that leaves some doors closed? Or maybe something in between.
I’m not sure what I’ll say, except - perhaps it’s better this way.