She was furious. She had flown over 2000 miles to see her first grandchild, a child so precocious that she started speaking at 5 months. Except that I didn't speak. Not a word. My grandmother accused my parents of lying. They bristled at the accusation, why would they lie? They hadn't asked her to come. Tension filled the house.
My grandmother was feeding me, unaware that I was perfectly capable of feeding myself. She had the routine down: scoop up the mushy food, scrape off the drip on the side of the bowl, and pop the spoon in my mouth. Mmmm. Liquid vegetables. What's not to love? And then I was full. I closed my mouth. "Open up," coaxed Grandma. I clamped my lips together tightly. "Yum, yum. Open, open." I was done. "Mmmm," said Grandma, trying to force the spoon through my tiny perfect lips. Last straw. "THAT'S ENOUGH, GRANDMA!"
She packed her bags and took the next plane home.
For a long time I couldn't understand why my grandmother didn't like me, was always at odds with me. Then I heard this story. And I knew I never had a chance.
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