Someone who recently read my book “Choosing Life” told me that my story made her angry at my parents. After a moment of enjoying the empathy, I realized what I had to tell her. The dysfunction did not start with my parents. It goes back I don’t know how many generations. Let me tell you about my mother’s mother, Gram.

Gram’s mother died when she was in third grade. School was over for her. She was sent to live with her sister. Her sister put her to work in her household until she was sixteen. Then her sister decided that Gram should get married, and that she should marry my grandfather. Poor Gram. She was afraid of him and begged her sister not to make her marry him. Her sister shaved her head, her long blonde hair, and forced the wedding. Was that why my grandfather was so brutal to her? Probably not. She was already afraid of him. He kept her barefoot, broke and pregnant. She had ten children, starting at seventeen years old. Eight of them lived. All her children were born at home. My grandfather not only beat her until she only had three teeth left, but he beat all the kids, too. Gram had to work in a factory, on her feet all day, to feed the kids. Remember, Gram was only four foot eleven inches tall. My grandfather was six foot four. My mother was the third born, the first girl. As soon as my mother was “old enough,” she took over taking care of the rest of the children. So, Gram did not have a mother to raise and protect her. Neither did my mother. Neither did I.

The important question is not “when did the dysfunction start?” The question is, “When will it stop?” I decided it would stop with me. I already knew what not to do. I let my heart teach me the rest. It takes a decision to walk away from the way it has always been.

Next time I’ll tell you about my father’s father, the bootlegger. Meanwhile, I’ll share a photo of Gram and Gramps. Actually, Gram finally did get the opportunity to be a real mother. She raised and protected me when she could.