My father forbade us from ever seeing our grandmother, insisting we should "consider her dead." My mother’s silence on the matter only deepened the mystery, and I grew up believing my grandmother must have been a cruel person. That belief lasted until years later, when I was working as a nurse and saw her name—my last name—on a patient roster.
With trembling hands, I entered her room and found not a monster, but a frail, kind-eyed woman. Through tears, she shared the truth: a painful misunderstanding had driven my father away. She had tried to protect him from someone who harmed their family, but he saw her actions as a betrayal. Choosing silence, she had hoped time would heal the wound.
In that moment, my heart broke for the woman I was taught to forget—a selfless figure burdened by sacrifice. I promised to help her heal, and I silently vowed that one day, I would help my father heal, too, and finally mend our fractured family.
