By Jen Kassebart 
In the photo, a radiant smile captures a moment frozen in time—a testament to the youth and mischievous spirit that defined my maternal grandmother.
She remains a distant yet compelling figure in my life, her existence confined to the boundaries of a single photograph—a tangible relic of a vibrant soul, tragically taken by the relentless grip of breast cancer when my mother was merely a 9-year-old child.
As I reflect upon the impact of breast cancer on my family, its lingering shadow casts a constant presence in my adult life. The annual ritual of undergoing mammograms has become a routine, each appointment carrying with it an undertone of nervous anticipation. I grapple with the profound hope that the results will never echo the fate of the woman who smiles from the confines of that photograph.
My daughter is nearly nine now, the same age my mom was when she lost her mother. I look at my little girl, so full of life and innocence, and I wonder how my mom coped with such a tremendous loss at that tender age.
How did she navigate growing up without her mother’s guiding hand and reassuring presence? My mother’s words once revealed the unbearable anguish she endured when her mother passed away—a pain so intense she resorted to pulling out her own eyelashes in desperate agony. It was her harrowing attempt to cope with immense grief.
Growing up as the only child burdened with the weight of immense sorrow, my mother displayed incredible resilience. Despite challenges marked by the stormy seas of two divorces, she managed to carve out a life filled with love and laughter. Tying the knot at the young age of 19 and becoming a mother at 21, she dedicated herself to raising me and my brother with unwavering love.
The intriguing coincidence in our family tale lies in the fact that my brother and I were born exactly nine years apart, each from a different father. This coincidence adds a layer of curiosity to our family narrative. It strikes me as more than happenstance that my younger brother was born on the exact day of my ninth birthday, leading me to ponder the significance of our age gap.
As I watch my daughter grow, I’m reminded of the preciousness of every moment we share together. I hold her close, grateful for the opportunity to create memories that will last a lifetime. The experiences my daughter and I have and the moments with my mother become a celebration of life, a defiance against the insidious specter of breast cancer that has haunted my family’s history.
So, to the grandmother I never knew, I offer a silent thank you. Though your presence is but a whisper in the winds of time, your legacy of love and strength lives on in the hearts of those who came after you. It is a testament to the resilience of the human spirit and the enduring power of family bonds that continue to shape and define our lives.
by Deb Preston 
by Amy Keyes 
