I will give you the last day of the month.

The month you chose to leave us. Not when your body gave out, when you gave out.

Leaving your family to wonder, “What the fuck?” Was it really that bad? Were you really that alone? Did it always have to be about you? Did our lives have to constantly swirl around the nucleus of you?

I was an outsider. Always an outsider. Even when I married your youngest. Especially when I married your youngest. Though I was the one who brought him back to you. Begged him to make amends. Opened the lines of communication you had closed down years before.

While I was carrying your grandson, I still was the enemy. The phone calls and messages. The verbal abuse. Finally, I couldn’t take it anymore. I eventually cut you off. No more. I took control of my happiness and took you out of the equation.

On the birth of your grandson, your son gave in. He called you. He invited you to the hospital to see your “only” grandchild. And I grudgingly let you back in.

We forgave you all of the drunken paranoia. The neediness. The abuse. We came back again. And again. But I don’t forgive you passing it on. That’s just bullshit.

We wanted you to be a part of your grandson’s life. That was more important than anything else. Giving him family. Letting him know where he came from, even if it wasn’t ideal. I mean, whose life is truly ideal? Everyone is screwed up to some extent.

But you kept pushing. And pushing. You never stopped. You even pushed your true love right out the door. He couldn’t stand it any longer. He was sick, and worried about being so. But that wasn’t important to you. Just how it negatively impacted what you wanted to do. So you pushed more.

He set you up in a small apartment, near us, near shopping, near public transportation. He loved you but couldn’t live with you, so he left.

We tried to fill the void. We visited when we could. We talked to you all the time. But it wasn’t enough.

It was still about you. More than ever. The paranoia got worse. You just knew we were in contact with him. Knew where he was. But he kept his secret well.

You warned us. One night you called, drunk, angry, accusing. You scared all of us. The ones who stayed, cared, or at least tried to. I offered to come see you. To calm you down. I was warned by your own children not to. You had been someplace like this before in the past and you fight back with real weapons, knives, fists, teeth. And these people were more afraid for me than they were for you.

What does that say? An “outsider” was more important to your own offspring than you were?

We called your doctor. He told us to call the police. They took you to professionals who could help you. But you can certainly be charming when you want to be. Or when you feel you need to be.

You were out the next morning. Back on the meds you threatened to take. The threat that caused us to call the police in the first place.

The meds we told the doctor you shouldn’t be taking. Why he didn’t listen, I’ll never know.

We had a nice family day. Your youngest, your grandson and me. We went to Busch Gardens with his work. The company holiday outing. We called before we left to tell you we would be by when we got home to visit for a little bit. But when we got home, the shit hit the fan.

We stopped to freshen up. We didn’t want to visit you all messy from a day at the park. You were such a stickler for everything being neat and clean. So we stopped. And the phone rang.

Where the hell have you been all day? There was a company outing. We’ve been trying to call all day. Why, what’s wrong? It’s about her. What’s wrong? Are you sitting down. I don’t want to sit down, what’s wrong?

She’s dead. She killed herself. There was a note. The police want to talk to him.

I knew it. I knew she was going to do this. I told the doctor. I told the police. Why the hell didn’t they listen?

So you left. No way to turn back. A letter on the door, “Don’t come in. Call the police.” A letter on the kitchen table outlining why you felt you had to go. Telling your youngest how much you love him. Next to a birthday present. One for him and one for your grandson.

They wore the shirts. I want you to know that. They did wear them.

But you still aren’t forgiven.

Your other grandson. The one no one cared about or asked about. The one who had JUST come back into our lives. He was 13. He didn’t get it. He asked once, “Why did she do it? Did she not want to at least meet me? To get to know me?”

My heart broke.

He came home to bury you. I got to help him. I picked your clothes. And your casket. I hope you like them. Everyone else seemed to. We put your angel with you. To watch over you and take care of you.

Most of your family came. People I had never heard of. It seems your family never stayed close. I never heard from any of them again. Nope, not close.

I played at your funeral. Greensleeves. Even your oldest cried. He told me if I ever did that again, he would hit me. I took it as a compliment as he pulled me into a big bear hug and asked me to play it when he goes.

We’ve never been to visit your grave. I don’t know that we ever will. The shady little spot near your sister. It holds nothing for us. At least not right now.

Your grandson, my son, asks about you every once in a while. We only tell him the good things right now. He doesn’t know you chose to not be here. Maybe one day we’ll tell him the rest, but he’s too young to know. When are you old enough to know?

Even though you are still unforgiven, we do think about you. We wish there had been a different outcome. We try to look past the hurt and anger. But it is so hard. So for now, thinking about you will have to be enough.