7/16/2024
I talked to my grandma today for the first time in close to two years. It’s her birthday, and she was so happy to hear from me—happy to the point that it made me sad. I am not a girl who cries often, but if there is one thing in this world that can make me cry, it’s my family—especially when I hear their voices. So I bawled quietly on the phone while I asked her how she had been doing and about the rest of my family.
I found out that my mother is engaged, my grandpa is on hospice, and my not-so-little cousin finished his first year of college. I listened as she told me how my sibling must be happy since they don’t visit that often. Hearing my grandma say that she checks Facebook every day just to see if I’ve posted killed me on the inside. I wish so badly to be a good daughter and granddaughter, but that has been so hard since I was kicked out at 16. Family became the least of my priorities, and now my grandparents are getting old.
I’ve always held a special place in my heart for my grandma. She never failed to make me feel like I was somebody in a sea full of people. She even said she was happy that I was able to get out and thrive. She’s 88, and now I sit here wondering if she lived the life she wanted, and if she’s happy.
After I got off the phone, I was feeling sentimental and tried to call my brother. He answered, and the conversation went like this:
Me: “Hello?”
Brother: “Hello, who is this?”
Me: “Is this brother’s name?”
Brother: “Yes.”
Me: “It’s Yuka…”
Line disconnects.
That was a very disappointing phone call. Don’t get me wrong—I don’t expect my brother to openly talk to me after all these years, but I don’t think I was prepared for the call to end right after I said my name. I thought I would be fine, but my mind kept swimming with questions… ultimately leading to one: Why do you hate me so much?
I don’t know what I ever truly did at 16 years old to be hated this much by someone in my family. But maybe I’m overthinking it, and he doesn’t hate me at all. Maybe he just doesn’t want to speak to me ever again, and I have to respect that boundary. Until the day I die, I may never know.
It’s been eight years since my family was a “family.” Eight years is a long time—long enough for change to occur, for frontal lobes to develop, and for healing to begin. I hope that one day everyone in my family, including myself, will be able to heal and have a relationship again. But I fear that nearly a decade has passed, and barely any apologies have been offered, leaving a hole in my heart.