You Didn't Have To, But You Did

To the woman who has inspired, encouraged, loved, raised, and believed in me from the moment I was born:

I want to tell the world exactly how amazing you are, but I don't have enough time to tell them every reason why.

This is the part where I ask for your advice, Nan. Do I speak from the heart, or worry about my word count? Should I put this in a special format? What would make it sound best so my readers can understand exactly what you mean to me?

I know what you'll say. "Just write. You're talented, and nobody will know that if you don't just do it."

So that's what I'll do, Nan. I'll just write.

One of my favorite things about you is how many times I've heard you share the story of my birth. You always tell people the same thing at the end of the story of that eventful day in September of 1987, "As soon as I looked into her eyes, I knew that baby was mine."

You're seldom wrong, and you were nowhere near wrong on that feeling the day I was born. You were the one who stepped into a nurturing role for me when I was being raised by a single parent; the one who, as I was told, laid out two beautiful outfits for work every day because I made it a point to spit up on the first outfit during our morning cuddle before you left. You never stopped spending your mornings with me, though. You just patiently laid out extra clothing, ensured I felt safe and loved by you, and changed your clothes before you left for the day. The laundry you must have accumulated during those times...

You didn't have to do that, but you did.

From the earliest days I can remember, I recall most vividly the strength of love I had in my heart when I saw your car pull into the driveway after a two hour drive to my home. The hugs we shared every single weekend you spent with us felt like the first ones we ever had, full of smiles and love and a happiness between grandmother and granddaughter that no Hallmark card could ever quite describe. No one ever made me feel as wanted and appreciated as you did, and I looked forward to your frequent visits from out of town for that sole purpose.

I was little, naive, curious, and quiet; you were bold, brave, loud, always ready to teach me not to be afraid to be who I was in a voice that people could actually hear. You didn't dress too conservatively, your hands were always adorned with enormous gems and costume jewelry to match whatever amazing outfit you had on, your nails were always painted, and those who didn't understand a grandmother with such a flair for the fashionably dramatic liked to call you "The Teenage Grandma." Although, now that I think about it, I think you mostly got that title from dancing on the top of your car with me while the radio blasted as loud as it could go.

People judged with wrinkled noses. Grandmothers are supposed to be so much more conservative than that.

You were more interested in making sure your baby girl was having fun.

You didn't have to do that, but you did.

As I grew older, you told me stories of your youth and what made it so difficult for you. The things you had to see and learn from a young age have always blown me away; your experiences make for tremendously complex story plots, but have come with a lot of trauma as well. Stories of secret KKK family members whose wives didn't find out until their husbands died, the horror you felt realizing you were related to such hateful humans, watching other adults in your life stand up to racism in the 1950's, being the forgotten/emotionally abused daughter of five children and never understanding why, becoming pregnant at fifteen years old in a time when teenage parenting was beyond taboo, and marrying by sixteen and divorcing by the age of seventeen when divorce was unheard of for young women (to name just a few events you've described).

You worked multiple jobs, finished high school, joined adulthood and the club of divorced women before the age of twenty, and graduated college later on while working two jobs and continuing to be a single mother. You've worn pant suits and dressed for success and chosen to lead by example rather than whine like a victim and succumb to the interests of men around you. You were the rebel, the one who went against everything the decades you've lived in said you shouldn't go against, but you did it because you knew right from wrong. You worked harder to prove to the world that women, even young ones, can rule anything if she's strong enough.

You didn't have to, but you did.

I don't remember it well, but I have vague memories of those years you were married to the abusive sheriff. I remember that you didn't let him near us, and I never really knew why, until you told me that he had been beating you to near death for years. You told me how you fled, went into hiding, and did everything you could to save your family from his alcoholic rage and terror. You sacrificed seeing your loved ones so they didn't become a target. I remember that, during that time, nothing seemed too different because despite the gravity of the situation, you always called to laugh and share stories and continue life as normal.

Why? Because I mattered to you more than you did.

I didn't have to, but I did.

I started gaining weight as a young teen and, eventually, lost a lot of my self-esteem. While I spent a lot of time hearing from other family members about how I should lose weight, dress more fashionably, and strive to look like thinner and more attractive individuals, you were busy pointing out the best features I had.

You took me for my first makeover at L.S. Ayres, where you and the makeup artist wouldn't stop gushing over my phenomenal skin, beautiful eyelashes, and bone structure. I remember thinking you were both probably doing it just to be nice, but as an adult, I know how much beauty you were seeing and how badly you wanted me to see it myself. You knew I had a hard time, and you tried in the best ways to make that different.

We went for my very first hair adventure, too. I'll never forget the highlight cap and how much it pinched to pull strands of hair out for highlighting. You smiled that wide, beautiful grin you have and told me I'd get used to it quickly and that the end result would be worth it. You never worried about how I'd handle anything and if you did, you hid it behind an impenetrable confidence so I could draw from that strength to create my own shield of confidence. It made it so much easier to breathe through a new experience. You made everything easier.

I'll never forget leaving the salon and going back to your home, only to spend the next hour hearing you go on about the gorgeous almond coloring of the highlights and what exactly about my features was enhanced by the new dynamic of color. For a while, it felt overwhelming to hear so many good things about myself, but I realized later that you just cared that much. You cared so much that you talked about it until you were blue in the face. My self-esteem mattered that much to you.

You didn't have to do that, but you did.

I remember when I was sixteen and I called to tell you I needed to live somewhere else. My home wasn't comfortable anymore, I wasn't wanted, and I didn't know where else to turn.

It took seven hours to drive from your home to mine at that point, and you arrived just in time to load up the small amount of clothing and personal items I was keeping so you could take me home with you instead.

You didn't have to, but you did.

I remember how you showed your love and support with every ounce of energy you could muster, because I had tried to take my own life before I moved in with you and you couldn't stand the fact that I had felt so unloved that I wanted to move past this life too soon. I remember you making it a point for us to do things together, as a family, even though it was just me and you. I remember how you told me you always felt like the black sheep of the family too, and how much we had in common feeling unwanted and unappreciated. I remember how hard we laughed because we decided that we had to be aliens since we were the only two people alike in the entire family.

I remember how much of my loneliness went away because I felt like someone really understood me. I was so used to being laughed at and brushed aside when I tried to be honest, but you didn't do that. You listened, you empathized, and you made an effort for me. Not only did you make the effort but you did it with so much grace; you were never overbearing, but you never made me feel like you weren't there for me. You walked a tight rope flawlessly that no one else had ever walked before, and even if you were afraid when you did it, you never let me know.

You didn't have to, but you did.

When I was sixteen years old, you made me learn how to file taxes. When I was eighteen years old, you bought me my first lottery ticket and discussed the responsibility of buying them without it becoming a problem. You taught me how to drive with endless patience, not once giving me grief for obtaining my license at the age of eighteen because you knew that I needed to go in my own time. You let me go through phase after phase of styles and wardrobes because you knew I needed to find myself without your opinion interfering.

You helped me learn to write resumes and you helped me through navigating my first real job. Eventually, you got me hired at the same store you were working in, which were some of the best years we've had together. You taught me so much about customer service, going above and beyond, having a valuable work ethic, and encouraged me to learn and try new things all of the time. I started off as a short hour cashier in the children's clothing area but because you helped management believe in me, I grew to learn the cash office, lead a biannual fundraiser, announce fashion shows, obtain a supervisor position, networking, and all sorts of retail tricks you'd picked up for years. You took me to lunch, let me vent, and kept everything between us because we had that level of understanding.

You taught me what it was really like to be an independent woman.

You didn't have to, but you did.

You got up all night long with my newborn son after his father left me so I could work third shifts. You took him to appointments, events, and meetings for me; you offered mental breaks and showed me examples of what mothers should do for their children's hearts. You helped raise both my son and daughter before I moved out of state, buying them clothes and necessities for years without batting an eye. You held my hand and understood my pain and suffering as I placed a child for adoption because I couldn't emotionally or financially handle having another little one to care for. You just didn't judge a single damn thing. It was always, without fail, you looking for a way to make it better. My whole childhood, adolescence, and adulthood, I've heard you ask, "Tell me how Grandma can make it all better."

You didn't have to, but you did.

When I met the love of my life online in 2017, you didn't hesitate to help me discover if he was the right one for me. You specifically took time off of work to give me a vacation in another state in January of 2018. You could have had that week to yourself, with real rest and relaxation, but you repeatedly told me, "What the hell else was I going to do, anyway? Just go, find out if he's your Prince Charming." When you met him on video chat and, for the first time ever, decided I chose a good partner to be with, you did everything you could to ensure we met again so I could solidify my decision to move out of my home state to be with him.

You knew it would hurt when me and the kids would leave. You knew life would never be the same for any of us, because we've been together our entire lives. You knew what kind of emptiness and loneliness was coming...but you also knew that the best life I could live was on its way, and I'll never forget you telling me, "I'll be damned if I stand in your path to happiness." You had given up your only chance at true love to focus on us, your family, and you weren't going to let me lose my chance.

You didn't have to, but you did.

I learned so many things from you and I haven't even begun to list all of them in this letter. I don't feel like this does your character any justice at all.

You're not a superhero. You're not some mythical being who just so happened upon this earth for whatever reason. You are a real, true, strong, beautiful, glamorous, classy, intelligent, brave woman who (luckily for me) decided I was worth time, money, and emotions spent. You decided I was worth everything I never thought I was, and you made me keep trying when I didn't want to anymore. You have never done it with malicious intent or hidden agendas.

You're just a good woman, and you helped make me what I am. You helped me. You always tried your best.

You had to. I was yours from the beginning.

Thank you, Nan.