I hate myself for fostering this relationship that feels monumentally unearned, but also I hate myself for resenting it so much. My children have a special smile they reserve for their grandmother, a sort of twin upturning of the lips and cocking of the head. They love her unreservedly.
When they were still little and living at home, the thought of a visit from her was like Christmas. They barely slept before she arrived on our doorstep bearing gifts and hugs and questions and, of course, her own special smile just for them. A similar smile lifting similar lips, a buttery glow of love encircling them all like halos.
I have always stood just a little bit outside that circle, their smiles taking a decisive U-turn around my anxious frown. I am the buzzkill in the room everyone tries to avoid. It’s not like I don’t love my mom, and it’s certainly not as though I don’t love my children or want them all to love each other.
On the contrary, I have spent two decades doing my best to enthusiastically encourage their closeness. I invited her to every school play, every soccer game, every music recital. We spent most of our holidays with her.
Her walls are filled with framed photos of my children from me. Her cupboards stocked with mugs about the joys of being a grandmother. Now that they’readults, I update her on all of their accomplishments and downplay any of their struggles.
I give her ample content for bragging on social media and long phone calls to her friends. I hate it sometimes, though: The ease of their love for each other. I hate myself sometimes for fostering this relationship that feels, in so many ways, monumentally unearned but also I hate myself for resenting it so much.
Extract — continue reading at the source.
