Breaking that gingerbread house was satisfying and childish.
Do not confuse defending someone with copying the harm done to them.
I was angry and I wanted Renee to feel what you felt.
That instinct is human.
It is not always wise.
You are allowed anger.
Try not to let anger choose your character.
Also, the “Timber” line was excellent.
Love,
Grandma Pearl.
That letter still makes me laugh.
Renee attended Grandma’s funeral.
She stood near back.
After service, she approached me.
“I loved her.”
“I know.”
“She hated me.”
“No.”
I shook my head.
“She was furious with you.”
“Different.”
Renee smiled sadly.
“She once called me ‘emotionally undercooked.’”
“That sounds like her.”
“She was right.”
We hugged.
First time since I was thirteen.
I expected something dramatic.
Closure.
Tears.
Instead it was awkward.
Her purse got between us.
We laughed.
Better.
At thirty-one, I had my first child.
A daughter.
Her name was Camille Pearl Carter-Williams.
Yes.
Two grandmothers in one name.
Dad cried when I told him.
Renee sent flowers.
The card said:
For Camille Pearl, may every family story make room for the ones before it.
I kept the card.
When my daughter was five, she helped me decorate Christmas tree.
The old tree itself had finally died years earlier.
Its metal frame bent beyond repair.
I bought a new green one.
Seven feet.
Slightly imperfect.
On purpose.
We hung Mom’s surviving ornaments.
New ornaments from Dad.
Jocelyn.
Malik.
Zoe.
Grandma Pearl.
My husband, Evan.
Our daughter.
The repaired blue heart stayed in frame on nearby mantel because it was too fragile to hang.
My daughter pointed.
“Why is it broken?”
I told her.
Not whole story.
Not yet.
“Someone knocked the tree over when I was little.”
“Who?”
“Someone who was angry.”
“Did Grandma Camille fix it?”
“No.”
“She was already gone.”
My daughter looked sad.
“Grandma Pearl?”
“She helped.”
“Did she get mad?”
I laughed.