Growing up in my grandparents’ house was like living in a different universe from the one my parents inhabited. And honestly, it was the best thing that ever happened to me. My earliest memory: I’m four years old, standing on a stool in Grandma’s kitchen, baking cookies. She let me put in way too many chocolate chips. She never got upset; she just laughed and said the best cookies always have a little extra love and a lot of extra chocolate.
Grandpa would come home from the courthouse, still in his suit, pick me up—flour in my hair and all—and ask about my day like I was the most important person in the world. I’d tell him about the bugs I found in the yard or a drawing I made, and he’d listen with the kind of focus usually reserved for Supreme Court briefings.
They never spoke ill of my parents. Not once. When I asked why Mom and Dad didn’t live with us, Grandma would say they were “busy with very important work.” I believed that for years. Kids believe what they’re told when the people telling it are kind. But I wasn’t stupid. I noticed things. Like how other kids’ parents were at the school plays, and mine weren’t. How friends talked about family game nights, while I spent mine with people who went to bed at 9:00 PM. How birthday cards from Diane and Steve arrived a week late with messages so generic they could have been written to anyone.
I first really understood something was wrong when I was seven. The school Christmas pageant. I had a solo—three whole lines in a song about a reindeer. I practiced for weeks. Grandma and Grandpa were in the front row. Grandpa had the camcorder; Grandma had a bouquet of flowers from her garden. After the show, I saw my friend Sarah taking pictures with both her parents. They were hugging her, laughing. I looked at my grandparents and asked:
— “Why didn’t my mom and dad come?”
Grandma’s face did that thing where she tried to smile, but her eyes stayed sad.
— “They really wanted to, honey. They just couldn’t make it this time.”
But I had heard her on the phone a week earlier, telling Diane about the pageant. I heard the long silence on the other end, followed by some vague excuse about Steve’s work holiday party. After that, I stopped asking.
Grandpa taught me chess when I was eight. We spent Sunday evenings at the board. He explained strategy, taught me to think three moves ahead. He never let me win, which frustrated me at first. But when I finally beat him fair and square at twelve, he was so proud he called everyone he knew.
Grandma taught me gardening. We had a corner of the yard for tomatoes, peppers, and flowers. She showed me how to tell when the soil needed water, how patience and consistent care created beautiful things. Only later did I realize she was teaching me about life, not just plants.
They were at every recital, every science fair. Grandpa would move his court schedule around, no matter how important the case. Grandma baked treats and made signs with my name on them. They cheered louder than any of the other parents. I used to be embarrassed by their enthusiasm. Now, I’d give anything to hear Grandpa’s voice shouting encouragement from the back of a room one more time.
Diane and Steve made their obligatory visits. Twice a year, like clockwork. Sometimes they brought expensive gifts that felt more like a payoff than a gesture of care. Designer clothes I’d never wear. Gadgets I didn’t need. Things that screamed, “We spent money, so we did our job.”
I remember one Christmas. I was ten. Diane showed up in a fur coat and diamond earrings, spending the whole night on her phone. She barely looked at me when she handed me a wrapped box. It was a tablet. I already had one—a gift from Grandpa. When I tried to tell her, she just waved it off.
— “Well, now you have two. Give it to a friend. What’s the difference?”
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