You always seemed to overshadow me. You indulged my children at every turn, never denying them anything they wanted.
A second helping of dessert, candy before dinner, a few extra minutes in the bath, money for the ice cream truck—you granted every wish without hesitation.
I struggled to balance respect for you with my concern that your boundless generosity might spoil my children. I feared that by giving them everything they wanted without delay, they might never learn patience, sharing, or the value of waiting their turn.
You held each of my babies long after they had fallen asleep, and I worried they would never learn to self-soothe. You responded to their every whimper and cry, leaving me anxious that they would never learn to be independent.
I resented the lavish gifts you showered them with on birthdays and holidays. How could I compete with such extravagance?
I watched with mixed feelings as you made their favorite meals—three different dishes for three different boys—and always had a little surprise in store. I didn’t want them to associate you solely with gifts and treats; I wanted them to love you for who you are. I tried to convey this, but you didn’t seem to hear me.
In my frustration, I wondered why you behaved this way and how I might get you to tone it down. I knew grandmothers were meant to spoil their grandchildren and then send them home, but your version of spoiling felt excessive.
Then, you were gone.
Telling my boys about your passing was one of the hardest things I've ever done. It was unimaginable—there were supposed to be many more milestones and moments shared with you: proms, graduations, weddings. They lost you too soon, and they weren't ready to say goodbye.
In all those years when I wished you'd stop spoiling them, I never fully grasped the depth of your love. You expressed it in every way possible: through your cooking, the gifts, the treats, your presence, and your unwavering support. You could recall every detail of their special moments, whether it was a perfect catch or a sweetly off-key note at a school concert. Your love was boundless, flowing from every corner of your life—your kitchen, your pocketbook, your words, and your endless embrace.
Although it's fruitless to dwell on regrets, I often reflect on how mistaken I was about your generosity. My children, now teenagers, miss you dearly—not the gifts or the money, but you.
They miss running to greet you at the door and hugging you before you even had a chance to step inside. They miss looking up and seeing you in the bleachers, their biggest fan, always eager to catch their eye. They miss your conversations, your words of wisdom, encouragement, and love.
If I could speak to you one more time, I would tell you that every precious moment that touches my heart, every milestone they achieve, and every time they impress me with their talents or perseverance, I think of you. I wish they could have you back.
Come back and love them once more, just as only a grandmother could. Bring your sweets and surprises, reward their smallest accomplishments with gifts, prepare their favorite meals, and take them anywhere they wish to go—all because of your love.
As much as I long for you to return, I realize now that, in a way, you never truly left.
I understand now that your love for them was immense and boundless. Being their grandmother brought you joy and purpose. While you cannot come back, your love remains with them, shaping who they are and who they will become. For this, and for every treat, gift, and moment you spent with them, I will always be grateful.
And I will forever wish you could do it all again.