Growing up, my dad always said, “Consider her dead,” whenever I asked about my grandmother. Mom stayed silent, her eyes heavy with unspoken pain. I assumed she must have been cruel—why else would my dad cut her off completely?
Years later, after finishing nursing school, I spotted a familiar last name on the hospital patient list: my own. My stomach sank as I read the first name beneath it—it was her.
I found a frail, kind-eyed woman, not the monster I’d imagined. Through tears, she explained the truth: my father had misunderstood her protective actions years ago. She stayed silent, hoping time would heal the wounds.
That day, I promised to care for her—and someday, help my father understand. The woman I’d been told to forget wasn’t cruel at all; she was selfless, and finally, I could help our family begin to heal.
