Therapy
I was three when I asked my grandmother why she was so fat. Nineteen years later and two years after her death, I cry. I cry even harder when I think about all she had done for me, everything she had sacrificed to keep my family whole. And I think of all the thoughtless things I had done to disappoint her, even as a three year old. I think of numerous accounts, and I cry. It takes a lot for me to cry. I did not cry at her funeral. Until crying over this now, the last time tears were shed was after our last conversation. Two days before she died, I told her I loved her. She assured me that I didn't; if I did, how could I let this happen to her.
I was told this would be therapuetic.
I was told this would be therapuetic.