A Grandmother’s Love, A Mother’s Silence
My daughter was born eight years ago,
and everything changed.
Not just my life,
but the dynamics I thought I understood.
The softest side of my mother surfaced, a side I had never known.
She became gentle, almost fragile in her tenderness,
like a fluffy cat curled up in the sun.
So smooth, so loving,
so unlike the hard, rocky woman I had grown up knowing.
In her eyes,
her granddaughter could do no wrong.
She was perfect.
No mistake was ever big enough.
No wrongdoing was worth correction.
Grandma covered for her, lied for her, shielded her.
No matter what happened, fault was never assigned.
She became her stronghold.
When my daughter was wrong,
she knew her grandmother would protect her.
She always had her back, unquestioningly, unconditionally.
And I…
I had no voice.
I couldn’t make decisions freely.
I couldn’t discipline without being overridden.
I couldn’t parent the way I believed was right.
Every “no” I gave was overridden.
My hands were tied completely.
It wasn’t fair,
but it was my truth.
It irritated me, every single time.
But this is what often comes with still living under your parents’ roof.
They limited my decisions about my own life for years.
What made me think it would be different
when it came to their granddaughter?
My daughter is spoiled,
and she knows it.
She gets what she wants.
When she does wrong,
there are no consequences with grandma.
She is a free bird,
with no limits
and no repercussions.
And oh, as parents, we suffer.
We carry the weight of our parents’ decisions on our shoulders,
even while trying to raise children of our own.
We explain, we plead, we try to set boundaries,
but our words often fall on dry ground.
Eight years later,
it’s still the same.
A grandmother’s love
that sees no wrong
in her granddaughter.
And a mother
learning, slowly, painfully,
how to find her voice anyway.
