When my mother was just nine years old, her own mother left the family. My grandfather, whom I affectionately called “Gramps,” was left to navigate the challenges of raising two daughters on a piano player’s modest income. There were often days when clean clothes were scarce, dishes piled high, and the rent was a constant worry.
Many in my mother’s situation might have found it impossible to face the person who abandoned them. Yet, despite the emotional turmoil, my mother chose not to sever ties with her mother. In fact, she made a conscious effort to keep her mother and her mother’s partner, Mike—who would eventually become her husband—integral parts of my upbringing, along with Gramps.
Our home, the brick row house where my mother still lives, became the heart of our family gatherings during holidays and birthdays. It was a space filled with laughter, love, and the occasional squabble, all bound together by my mother’s unwavering commitment to ensure my sister and I were surrounded by warmth and affection.
Sure, there were heated moments when tempers flared, but overshadowing the disagreements was a symphony of music, dancing, and laughter. Gramps would pound the piano keys while Mike sang along, and you’d never guess that one had once been married to the other’s spouse. They appeared more like old friends sharing a laugh than anything else.
Divorce wasn’t exclusive to my mother’s side; my father’s parents also had their own separation story. Yet, for reasons that may have included love for their grandchildren or simply an excuse to share a glass of wine, they managed to come together for family milestones. My grandfather always brought along his latest girlfriend, while my grandmother, Nana, showered us with affection and tapped her feet in time with the music. Occasionally, Gramps and Mike would bicker about the tempo of a song or whether Mike’s singing was off-key, but they were both there, cheering us on as my sister and I twirled around the living room.
Time took its toll; my grandmother’s husband passed away, and a few years later, Gramps faced dementia so severe that he would repeat the same stories over and over again, often without realizing it. My mother would say, “He didn’t know his head from a hole in the ground,” and sadly, that was sometimes accurate. Yet, she keeps a mug inscribed with his name, Paul, reminding her of his humble nature, which was evident in every way.
Despite the ups and downs, my mother has maintained a relationship with her mother, who remains an essential presence in our lives and now in the lives of my children. Through health struggles, emotional challenges, and the passage of time, my mother has held the family together. Today, although the gatherings are smaller and the piano sits silent, we still come together at the red-brick house during the holidays.
We may talk over each other or get upset over trivial matters, but the reason we continue to gather is clear—it’s all thanks to my mother. She didn’t have a blueprint for building a family; she created it herself. In doing so, she taught those around her that family is beautiful in its messiness, chaos, and joy. It may never be perfect or what you envisioned, but the journey is undeniably worth it.
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In summary, my mother’s lessons on family revolve around resilience, love, and the willingness to embrace chaos, teaching us that the bonds we create, however imperfect, are what truly matter.
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