Ever since I was a little girl, I had always wondered what it was like to have a grandfather. I was envious of all of my friends who had a prominent grandfather figure in their life: a grandfather that would go to their hockey games, tell them stories of his childhood, and offer them advice when their worlds seemed to crash down. Where was mine? I knew my mother’s father had “disowned” her when she was 16 for reasons that I cannot seem to understand, and he had never seen or talked with her since. Why had he never come around? Giving up the notion that he would magically show up at my doorstep, I assumed that I would live my life never knowing my grandfather. That was until August of this year…
I like to describe my mother and I as very close. We exchange stories like best friends and fight like sisters. I complain to her about boys and flaky friends, and she vents to me about work and typical day-to-day problems. She hasn’t admitted that I’m the favorite child, but we are getting there (just kidding, Mom). So when she sat down with me that day with a handwritten letter in her hand, I knew today’s news would be a little different. “It’s a letter from my father…do you want to read it?”
I was shocked. Father who? I barely heard her utter the word in all of the years that I’ve been alive. Of course, I knew the void in her heart that she had from losing touch with her father. I imagined the pain she must have felt to know that he never met my brother and I, never saw us grow up, never got to hug or hold us as children. My mother had been very close to her grandfather, so seeing her children not get to experience that relationship was no easy feat. I couldn’t even fathom not having a father, as I am so blessed to have my own – an amazing one at that.
I held the letter in my hands, and a million emotions surfaced. How would I react? My mother was already crying. Eager to know some answers, I began to read. The letter was sent from Austria, where he now lived with his wife. He talked about his life and how he always thought of my mother, how he wished to visit and meet my family. Being the huge softie that I am, I cried throughout the entire letter. When I read the line “I never stopped loving you,” I completely lost it. He seemed so vulnerable, not like the stories of the military man that my mom had told us. My heart ached for him, for her, for myself. I wanted to understand why he would ever lose touch with his daughter in the first place. How could he bear such a loss in life? Did he regret it? Would he forgive himself? Was this letter enough to forgive him?
That’s what I want to leave you with: my answer to that last question. My grandfather came to Boston a few weeks later, and he spent the weekend at my house. My mother and him bonded over old pictures and stories about their separate, but seemingly connected lives. He talked sports stats with my dad and brother, and urged us to visit Austria. I got to hug my grandfather for the first time. Sure, my mother could have been closed off and not allowed him to meet my family for the pain that he inevitably had put on her (and us). We could have continued on with our lives with no changes. But the life we all lead now after this experience is far richer than our lives before. The greatest lesson that anyone can take away from this is that it is never too late to do what you wish to do in life. My grandfather woke up one morning and wished to right his wrongs, and he did. He wanted to change his life, and he changed it. Had he waited, it may never have happened. Because of his decision, he doesn’t have to live with the fact that he never reconciled with his daughter, my mother can have her father in her life, and I have a grandfather to call my own. If you truly regret something in life, and have the will to change it, do it. Life is too short to spend saying, “What if?”