On the day my father died, my grandmother disowned me. I guess her grandchildren were too painful a reminder of her lost son. I was only 14, too devastated to care. As the years passed, though, I did begin to care and to find it unfair that she could just dismiss us from her life.

At 23, I walked up the path to her once familiar house and rang Gram’s doorbell. She opened the door and just stared. Why hadn’t it occurred to me that she might not recognize that teenage kid from years ago?

“It’s Norma,” I said. “Your granddaughter.”

“Are you John’s daughter?”

I would have to spell it out: “Yes, I’m your son’s daughter.”

Gram invited me in and we had tea and cookies together, as we had done when I was a kid. I felt as though I was that little girl again, visiting with the grandmother I adored. I was a full-time college student and I worked full-time, but I pledged that I would carve out the space to visit her twice a month. Gram had very little money of her own, and I loved being able to treat her to a meal out or a trip to the store to pick out something she liked.

When my sister learned that I had reconnected with Gram, she got in touch with her, too. Then she told me that Gram was not pleased that I visited her so infrequently. I was deeply hurt. I guess no matter what I did, it would never be enough for her. That got me thinking. I was always the one who initiated our visits. She had kicked me out of her life; why couldn’t she at least occasionally be the one to get in touch now? I worked myself into a stubborn twist and decided I’d wait for her to call to make an arrangement to get together.

That call never came. And so we lost contact once again.

Twelve years later, an aunt got in touch to let me know that Gram’s health was declining and that she’d said she really wanted to see me. I got to the hospital as soon as I could. Gram said she felt terrible that I used to take her out constantly and pay for everything when she knew that I was a struggling student with barely a minute to myself.

Had Gram purposely said something hurtful to my sister so that I would stop sacrificing my time and money for her? And had I foolishly lost twelve years during which my grandmother and I could have continued to enjoy a close relationship?

I visited Gram every week now, with no resentment on either side—only love and laughter. In fact, I’ve never felt so much love from anyone in my life. When she was 84, she was often taken to the hospital to be treated for cancer. Apparently she told every nurse and doctor about her granddaughter, the psychotherapist, because they all seemed to know who I was and how proud she was of me. When she said that my dad would have been proud of me, too, I fought back the tears and just felt grateful knowing that I would have missed hearing and feeling all this if I hadn’t rung her doorbell 14 years earlier.

Gram was bedridden in severe pain for the last two years of her life, shuttling constantly between the nursing home and the hospital. During my visits, we would talk and talk. She was so loving and appreciative of the smallest things I would do for her. She loved it when I combed her hair. With a comb in my hand, I learned more about her and about my father’s life than I ever thought I would be privileged to know.

When Gram died I was terribly sad, but I had known her and she had known me. Nothing could take that away from me.

Read about Norma Campbell.