ma belle grand-maman. tu nous as quittés il y a sept ans déjà. ce n’est pas un anniversaire que les autres soulignent, mais c’était ton chiffre chanceux, c’était l’année que je redoutais le plus. je t’avais promis que j’accomplirais quelque chose de ma vie, en sept ans. j’avais promis de te rendre fière. j’ai échoué, nonna. je n’ai pas personne avec qui partagé nos souvenirs, avec qui faire des cannolis les samedis après-midi. j’ai échoué à recoller les morceaux avec mon frère, même si je ne comprends pas ce qui s’est brisé. depuis ton départ, rien n’est pareil. je n’ai plus de phare à observer la nuit. je n’ai plus de souhaits à faire en soufflant sur un pissenlit. j’ai essayé. je sais que tu le sais aussi.
je sais que tu veilles sur moi, sur nous tous. je sais que tu nous suis partout. tu es avec moi quand je fredonne tes chansons préférées en revenant du travail. tu es avec adamo alors qu’il entame une nouvelle étape de sa vie. tu es avec maman, à la supporter dans ces temps difficiles. tu es avec papa, à lui dire de continuer à nous protéger même si nous sommes si loin les uns des autres. et nous, nous veillons sur ta mémoire.
je t’avais promis qu’en sept ans, j’aurai trouvé mon prince charmant ou ma princesse, je serais entourée d’enfants que je chérirais comme toi tu l’as fait avec les tiens. je t’avais promis que je serais de retour à la maison, notre maison. je n’ai rien fait de tout cela. tu me disais toujours que j’étais différente, spéciale. peut-être un peu trop. tu m’avais juré que je trouverais ma moitié. je commence à croire qu’elle s’est perdue, comme moi. tu m’envoies sûrement un signe. il est peut-être temps de retourner d’où je viens. de retourner vers toi.
je suis encore là-bas. je suis bien, ne t’inquiète pas. i still haven’t found what i’m looking for... tu te rappelles quand papa criait cette chanson pour nous réveiller le dimanche matin, adam et moi? je l’entends toujours, j’entends la mélodie. elle me pousse à continuer de chercher... qui étais-tu avant d’avoir changé de pays, de vie? qu’as-tu essayé de fuir? ne t’y sentais-tu pas chez toi? a house doesn’t make a home, celle-là aussi, papa l’aime.
si tu savais tout ce que je donnerais pour te serrer dans mes bras une toute dernière fois. pour te confier tous mes secrets. pour te confier tous mes regrets. pour me faire pardonner de t’avoir déçue. m’aimerais-tu encore? parce que, moi, oui. je t’aime, pour toujours et à jamais.
dear grand-mother,
my beautiful grand-mother. you left us seven years ago. it might not be an anniversary that other people celebrate, but it was your lucky number, it was the year i dreaded the most. i promised you i would have made something of my life, within seven years. i promised i would have made you proud. i failed, nonna. i have nobody to share our memories with, with whom i would bake cannolis on saturday afternoons. i failed at putting back the puzzle pieces with my brother, even though i don’t understand what’s broken. ever since you left, nothing is the same. i have no lighthouse to look up to at night. i have no wishes to make while blowing dandelions. i tried. i know you know it too.
i know you are looking over me, over all of us. i know that you are following us everywhere. you are with me with i sing along your favorite songs while coming back from work. you are with adamo while he’s taking a big step for his future. you are with mom, supporting her during these hard times. you are with dad, telling him to continue to protect us even though we are so far from one another. and us, we are remembering you.
i promised you that, within these seven years, i would have found my prince charming or my princess, that i would be surrounded with kids whom i would cherish like you did with your own. i promised you i would be back home, our home. i did nothing. you would always tell me that i was different, special. maybe a little too much. you swore i would find my other half. i’m starting to believe it got lost, like me.
i am still there. i am doing good, don’t worry. i still haven’t found what i’m looking for... do you remember when dad used to scream this song to wake adam and i up on sunday mornings? i still hear it, i hear the melody. it pushes me to continue searching... who were you before you moved to a different country? what did you try to run away from? did you not feel at home? a house doesn’t make a home, this one too, dad loves it.
if only you knew what i would give just to hold you in my arms one last time. to tell you all my secrets. to tell you all my regets. to apologize for failing you. would you still love me? because i would. i love you, forever and always.
She knew he was back in town, and yet, she hadn’t had the fortune or rather, misfortune to run into him yet. She wished she could but, decided it probably wouldn’t go down so well, given the last time they’d been in contact had been when he’d cut off communication with her altogether. Riva had been heartbroken by it, even more so, when he had gone off and gotten himself married, or engaged, or whatever.
I miss you.
Riva had thought about beginning the letter that way but, she thought it may have been too trite or something, and decided against it. Kind of.
I know you’re back in town and I miss you.
I thought writing a letter might have been easier on both of us because we don’t actually have to see each other, and we don’t need interact. You don’t even really need read the letter, if you don’t want to. I just thought it might be good for me to let you know how I feel about everything that happened.
I won’t apologize for what I did, for the choice I made (about the abortion) but, I always feel guilty about it. I feel like there’s some small part of my mind that always comes back to it and how I didn’t think you could handle it. I thought it would have been easier to hide it, for you to not know anything about it and just carry on as normal.
I was very, very wrong about that. You’d probably say, if you’re reading this now, that I was always wrong about a lot of things. You’re probably right about that. But, I was wrong.
I was wrong to go to my brother instead of you.
I was wrong to not tell you about it, and that you had to hear about it from someone else.
And, I was wrong not to ask your opinion about it, I just froze you out without you even knowing.
No matter what you said to me or even about me, never made me stop feeling something for you. Even when we parted ways that summer to go off to college, I couldn’t stop thinking about you. You most definitely heard differently and yes, there were other guys. I don’t even care if there were other girls for you. It didn’t change how I felt for you, though.
I guess what I’m trying to say is that I miss you and I’m sorry for everything I did. I know that my actions ultimately drove us apart. I also know that, as an adult, I should have taken responsibility and told you, we could have talked everything out and either continued whatever remnants of friendship we had or gone our separate ways without too much of a grudge for each other.
If you did end up reading this, I really hope you did, I moved to Ellington but, I still go over to my parents’ house every other Sunday. They ask about you a lot, they’d love to see you.
She whispers it, letting the syllables roll off her tongue like they once did.
Luca.
She’s whispering it in his ear at a party, she’s saying it through tears in her vows, she’s shouting it as she throws a wine glass at him across the table...
It’s when she realizes she did love him that she puts the pen down.
It’s when she realizes she hates him now that she picks it back up.
Dear Luca, she begins.
If you had looked at my computer history (which you wouldn’t, of course - you were neither jealous nor curious) you would have laughed at what you’d seen. The things I googled in the weeks leading up to the end of us would be comedy gold for you now. But they still break my heart when I think of them.
how to know if your man is cheating
how to make your man love you again
how to stop loving somebody who doesn’t love you
The internet had interesting advice for me then. The biggest one they all had in common was “realize that no one can control another person”. I wanted to make you stop lying and cheating, I wanted to make you love me, to make you care... but I could never make you do anything.
But if that was true, if no one had complete control over anyone else, then why did you have so much control over me? Why did I need your approval so badly? Why did I want to be perfect for you? Even when I knew that I’d get nothing in return, why was it my goal to make you happy? If you weren’t controlling me, then I was choosing that for myself.
I still blame you, of course. I don’t think even you would say the dissolution of our marriage was on me. But I’m more to blame than I originally said I was. I acted like a victim, like a puppet that you’d controlled. A puppet that lay dormant when you weren't around and sprung to life when you came home, but that’s not true. I’ve always been my own person. I forgot that for a while, with you, that’s all.
I’ve always wanted to be loved. That’s all I’ve ever wanted. And when I thought I found it, I thought that was the peak of happiness. But I was a broken bird, and all I wanted was to be fixed. You fixed me, but you caged me, too. You gave me what I wanted. Sort of.
My heart and my mind find it difficult to believe you never loved me at all. I know you said you didn’t. I know I said you didn’t. And I know it’s true, but I can’t bring myself to really, truly believe it. It makes no sense. I think if I were to accept that it’s true, and accept that I wasted seven years of my life with you... I don’t think I could handle that.
Anyway. This is me accepting responsibility for my part in our downfall. I loved you. And then I hated you. Now I’m... indifferent. I hope you’re doing well.
Dear Mum, she begins. She crosses that out immediately. How many years has it been since she’d called her mother mum? She doesn’t know what to call her. She isn’t even sure she knows her parents’ real names - they spent all their adult lives as Buttercup and Barkley.
Dear Buttercup, she tries again. Sounds like she’s writing a letter to a Powerpuff Girl. Not that she had any time to watch cartoons growing up, on account of always being in the middle of an active warzone or a mosh pit.
Dear Estranged Neglectful Mother Figure. Closer, but she wasn’t even that, was she? Estranged, yes. Neglectful, absolutely. Mother figure? No. Maybe her dad would listen.
Dear Dad, she begins.
She stares at it, and realizes she never really called him that. He made her call him Barkley, like everyone else. When they were alone together it made people suspicious.
More than a few well-meaning adults came up and quietly asked her if this man was her father.
More than once she found herself wanting to say he wasn’t.
Dear Barkley, she writes. Now it’s the dear bit that looks incorrect. Is he dear to her heart? Is she dear to his? Or are they just stuck together by their bonds to Buttercup, forced to live out sixteen years together because of her? Like a prison sentence. He wouldn’t listen.
Parents, she begins.
I wish I could say I was writing to exclaim that I have finally forgiven you. I wish you would cry with relief when you read this, and immediately call me, or get on a plane, and hug me and tell me you’ve always loved me, like parents are supposed to, you just didn’t know how to show it.
You didn’t mean to open doors that a child should never walk through. You didn’t mean to push me when I wasn’t ready. You didn’t mean to make me grow up never actually experiencing any kind of love. You’re sorry. You regret it. You’d take it back if you could.
Unfortunately, I know you better than you do. So I know how that would go. Even if I did forgive you, which I regret to say I do not, you wouldn’t be relieved to hear it. You would be infuriated. Forgive you? For what? You had a different parenting style sure, but I was always fine, what am I complaining for? Did I ever go hungry? Was I ever unsafe? Even if I told you the truth - that I once ate mum’s lipstick because there was no other food. That I was lost at Burning Man for an hour before you found me - you wouldn’t believe me. Because you don’t remember. Because you were high.
You believe you were good parents. You believe that you’re blameless. And so you’re guiltless. The guilt you should be carrying is on my shoulders. The weighT of what happened to me and what should have happened but never did... that weighs on me, not on you.
That’s why I can’t say any of this. That’s why I can’t even manage to write this letter, let alone send it to you. I’m still angry. Even if I don’t know your names and you’ve forgotten mine again, we will always be connected. By blood, and by resentment.
