Once upon a time, I loved you. I relished spending time with you, always waiting until the next time I'd see you. I thought I was your favourite, after all, none of the other grandchildren bothered to visit you. It was only you and I, eating too much junk and watching bad television.
I never wondered why the walls held your other grandchildren's faces and not mine. I never asked why they had a room for their twice a year visits, while as a frequent guest, I was put in the lounge. Not once did I wonder why you knew everything about them, yet couldn't seem to recall my birthday. Later, I realise what came was inevitable.
As I got older, the visits became less frequent, especially once the divorce. You never asked how I felt, or offered comfort. When I expressed anger towards being thrown aside by my father, you told me it was my fault. I don't understand how you expected a child to understand why their once beloved father had chosen another woman over his family, over his kid. I certainly can't comprehend how it was my fault.
I write this now, because you claim to be grandmother of the year proudly over Facebook. Do the strangers there know what you are truly like? Do they know that you can't recognise your own grandchild? Do they know you told me I wasn't welcome in your life at the age of eleven, until I could accept my father's choices?
Then again, you have your other grandchildren, and I can't say that you aren't great to them. I don't know how you are, because I haven't seen you in ten years. I guess, you can claim what you like, as I'm no longer your grandchild, and you stopped being my grandmother long ago.