I thought turning my granddaughter’s little drawing into a permanent reminder of her love would be one of the sweetest decisions I’d ever made. Instead, the moment my husband saw it, his reaction was so harsh and personal that I began wondering what else was really behind his anger.
When my six-year-old granddaughter, Natalie, handed me a drawing with “I LOVE YOU NANA” written across the top, I nearly cried.
It was nothing elaborate.
The letters were uneven, the colors wandered outside the lines, and the little picture of the two of us had arms that were much too long for our bodies.
She had drawn herself beside me, both of us smiling under a huge yellow sun.
To anyone else, it probably looked like an ordinary child’s drawing.
To me, it was everything.
I did not have the easiest childhood.
Affection was scarce in my home, and there were years when I wondered what it would be like to live somewhere that felt warm and safe.
As a girl, I imagined that, when I grew up, I would have a family where people hugged each other, said “I love you,” and meant it.
Standing there with Natalie’s drawing in my hands, I realized I had something I had wanted for most of my life: a family that loved me.
