It was always a ritual. Whenever life felt too heavy, or the longing for a simpler, warmer connection grew too strong, I’d pack everyone up in the Suburban and race down to see Grandma. Sometimes, I didn’t even wait for an excuse. On my own, I’d throw a bag in my Mustang, point it south, and drive sixteen hours straight just to surprise her. It wasn’t the convenience; it was the pull of her presence, the love, and the memories she carried like heirlooms for the soul.
My earliest memories of her felt eternal, even though she always swore she was dying. I remember standing at a payphone outside the barracks in San Diego, barely 18, tears streaming down my face as I wondered what I’d say about her at her funeral someday. Her voice always lit up when she picked up the phone, but the joy would quickly fade into her well-practiced lament.
“Mijo, I’m not feeling well. When are you coming to see me? I’m dying,” she’d say, and I’d roll my eyes, knowing this routine. Looking back, it’s laughable; she was only in her late fifties then, but to her, every day was borrowed time.
Whenever I visited, I’d see that blend of strength and vulnerability. As she got older, the strength faded. By the time she was crawling on her hands and knees, falling more often than she’d admit, I hired her a cleaning lady to help out. Grandma didn’t take kindly to it. “She’s stealing from me,” she’d insist, or, “I just don’t like her kind.” Whether it was prejudice or pride, she pushed away every hand extended to her.
Eventually, the family decided it was time. The house was sold, the money pooled into a trust, and Grandma was placed in a care home. Visiting her there was gut-wrenching. She’d always find a moment to pull me aside, gripping my hand with a desperate strength.
“Mijo, get me out of here,” she’d plead, her eyes hollow with indignity. But what could I do? She needed to be there. She couldn’t live alone anymore.
The place wore her down. Her vibrant spirit was replaced with a quiet resignation. She stopped speaking English entirely, retreating into a language that felt safer. The food was bland and unrecognizable to her, so the family started blending Taco Bell into something she could eat. It wasn’t home, and it wasn’t her. She stayed there for years, slowly fading like a photograph left too long in the sun.
When I heard she was going to be honored with a plaque for being the oldest person in Norwalk, I knew I had to be there. I drove down quietly, not telling anyone, wanting to surprise her. When I arrived at my cousin’s place in La Mirada, the sight stopped me in my tracks—40 or 50 cars spilling out onto the street, a gathering far bigger than anything I’d imagined.
I walked up to the house, two blocks away, and opened the door without knocking. The room was packed with people—Mexican families I didn’t recognize, none of them taller than six feet, all looking at me like I didn’t belong.
“Jaime!” someone called out, breaking the tension. A murmur of recognition rippled through the room, and people relaxed. But I couldn’t shake the feeling. The room wasn’t for her—it was for them, a stage for a performance of family unity that didn’t feel genuine.
The food was incredible—homemade Mexican dishes Grandma would’ve been proud of. But the atmosphere was off. My aunt and her side of the family dominated everything, their pictures and stories plastered across the house. It was clear who had taken over. I joked to myself that I felt like a manager at a landscaping convention, the only white guy surrounded by all these little Mexicans. It was the only way to lighten the heaviness.
Grandma sat in her wheelchair, staring blankly at the table, barely responsive. I sat across from her, smiling, trying to connect with her, but she was gone. Her eyes met mine for brief moments, and I hoped she recognized me.
When it was time for the cake, a man who seemed to be the alpha of this group brought it out, candles lit, and the family began singing Las Mañanitas in Spanish. Grandma didn’t react. She just stared, her expression unreadable. When the song ended, everyone waited for her to blow out the candles, but she didn’t.
The man looked at her, then at me, and must have sensed something. He started the birthday song in English. This time, when it ended, Grandma blew out the candles. It felt like a gift, that small moment of recognition.
That was the last time I saw her, the last time I kissed her cheek, played with her soft, curly hair, or held her hand. The drive home was long, and I had plenty of time to think. Tears ran down my face as I realized it was probably the last time I’d ever be with her.
Her death came during the most chaotic time of my life. I was in the middle of a very public, very ugly divorce, and when my aunt called to tell me Grandma had passed, I felt a wave of disgust. This was the same woman who had spent years erasing us from Grandma’s life, replacing our photos with hers on every wall and swapping out the digital frame I’d gifted with pictures of her own family.
She told me there would be a service, a eulogy delivered by Grandma’s youngest daughter, and some others who wanted to share their memories. “It’d be nice if you came,” she added, her tone as hollow as her words.
I couldn’t do it. I couldn’t bring myself to stand in that room, filled with people who had taken and taken from her, parading their grief as if it were a badge of honor. They didn’t deserve to be part of her story.
I stayed away, and I’ve never regretted it. My memories of Grandma were mine—sacred, untarnished by the performative grief of others. She was the woman who taught me resilience, who made me feel loved even in her silence. She was the one who blended Taco Bell for comfort and killed fleas on a white pillowcase with precision. She was a hundred years of life, love, and sacrifice.
And while I didn’t need to be at her funeral to prove my love, I know that love will never fade.
