By Wendy C 
The word “grandma” doesn’t resonate with me. You see, I never really had a quintessential grandmother figure in my life. One of my grandmothers died when I was four years old; the other grandmother lived on a different continent, so I never saw much of her. It was mainly just my parents, my sister, and me.
I never got to go to sleepovers at a grandma’s house. I never baked deliciously soft cookies with a grandma in her kitchen. I never heard stories about the good ol’ days from a grandma while we looked over old photo albums. I never got to know the women who were part of my history and where I came from.
This was fine with me until I met people like my husband, who did have close relationships with their grandmas. My husband got to have lots of sleepovers at his grandma’s (aka Nonna’s) house. He made delicious pasta sauce with her in her kitchen. He heard stories about the good ol’ days while they looked at old black-and-white pictures together. He got to know the woman who was a part of his history and where he came from.
And can I be honest? It made me feel a little sad I had missed out on something important in my life. I had missed out on the experience of my grandmas, of being their granddaughter. And that was my only chance. I’ll never be anyone’s granddaughter again.
I can’t go back in time and change the past. But I can look toward the distant future when I may get the chance to be a grandma. And then, perhaps vicariously through my grandkids, I may experience the grandma–granddaughter experience that eluded me.
by Lizzy Christian 
by Amy Keyes 
by Lauren Eberspacher 
