To Grandma. With Every Last Drop of Love and Hope I Have Left

Grandma,

Forgiveness from God may soothe your conscience, but it does not mend the wounds you left in your wake. It does not unburn the bridges. It does not breathe life back into the memories of days spent crying, or the countless nights I or my siblings and your own children, lay awake, confused by the sharpness in your voice when we needed gentleness. You speak of divine mercy as if it is the final chapter… but to those of us who bore the brunt of your pain, it is not even the beginning of closure.

I do not question that your God is merciful. I do not doubt that He sees into the hollows of your heart, the trauma you carry, the mother who hurt you, the childhood you were robbed of. But that does not erase the pain you passed down. Your suffering does not exempt you from accountability. It never did.

What you seem to miss, Grandma, is that forgiveness cannot substitute for repair. Spiritual absolution may cleanse your soul before God … but it cannot replace a phone call. It cannot replace the warmth you withheld. It cannot offer the words “I’m sorry” to a little girl who once longed to hear them. That little girl still lives in me, that little child still lives within your adult children and grandchildren.. still wondering why your love had sharp edges and your presence felt more like punishment than protection. We have grown and softened and tried to understand you, but we cannot do your part of the healing for you.

There’s a difference between repentance and repair. One is whispered in prayer, the other is carved in action. And until you choose the latter, you leave the rest of us standing in the wreckage you left behind, trying to rebuild homes from ruins you refuse to admit were ever broken.

You say God forgives you. But you have not forgiven yourself, not really… because if you had, you would come to us. You would face us. You would own the truth, ugly as it may be, and offer us your trembling hands in apology. But instead, you hide behind scripture, behind silence, behind stubborn pride dressed in sanctity.

Grandma, faith without action is dead. And your refusal to engage in repair shows not a healed heart, but a hardened one.

You hurt us. That is a truth I will not soften. Your words were harsh. Your tone dismissive. Your affection, conditional. You offered judgment when we needed comfort, shame when we needed guidance. And when we finally found the courage to name what we went through, you called it disrespect. You accused us of dishonoring you… not seeing that it was the dishonor done to us that we were trying to survive.

My siblings and I were children. We needed gentleness, curiosity, someone to see who we were beyond our perceived flaws. But instead of nurturing us, you echoed the very violence that shaped you, continuing the generational wound rather than healing it. Your home could have been a sanctuary. You could have chosen tenderness. But you didn’t.

And now, as I raise my own children, I find myself standing at a threshold. I could invite you in. I could pretend that your version of forgiveness is enough. But it is not. I cannot let them be shaped by the same neglect and emotional coldness that marked my upbringing. I cannot let them wonder, as I did, what they did wrong to deserve silence or disapproval. They deserve softness. They deserve love without shame. They deserve to be seen in ways I never was.

This is why I have chosen to match your emotional and physical distance in a way. Not out of cruelty. Not out of bitterness. But out of protection. Out of love… for them, for myself, even for you. Because enabling this silence, this willful denial, is not love. It is complicity.

You once had the power to break the chain. You still do. But it requires more than confession to God, moving on WITHOUT relationship repair and accountibility. It requires confrontation… with your past, with us, with yourself. It requires courage… not the kind that walks into church on Sunday, but the kind that walks into the living room of someone you hurt and says, “I see you. I hear you. I’m truly sorry.”

I do not need perfection from you. I never did. What I needed was presence. Accountability. A willingness to learn and grow. That door was open for a very long time, Grandma. I waited. I grieved. I wrote letters I never even sent. I stood in the doorway of reconciliation with my arms aching from being held open too long. But I will not let my children wait in that same doorway. I will not let them be the next generation who must learn to survive without answers.

You are my grandmother, and I will always wish you healing. But healing is not the same as evading responsibility. True healing requires light to be cast on the darkest corners. It requires truth, not platitudes. It requires humility, not righteousness.

If God has truly forgiven you, then let that forgiveness move you. Let it humble you. Let it crack the shell of silence that surrounds your heart and remind you that repair is holy too. That looking someone in the eye and saying, “I was wrong,” is an act of divine courage.

There is still time, Grandma. But it will not last forever. One day, the silence will be all that remains. And when that day comes, I hope you will not be left wondering what more you could have done. I hope you will have already done it.

With my last sliver of hope,

Aubs