My mother never really like my grandfather and for all she cared, he was an awful, rude and racist man. My father loved him for being his father, but hated him for the abuse he had inflicted on his family for what seemed to be a long a dwelling childhood. For all he cared, he was glad that evil bastard was gone. Then their was me, I loved him more then I knew. So as you see, I could never thrust any one of my parents with my feelings of pain and hurt. But the worst part was that my parents didn’t tell me that he died till after school. By then, my grandfather was off to be cremated. I had to chance to say goodbye. No chance to hug his teddy bear like body or stare into his beautiful blue eyes that always seemed to make everything thing ok I just sat there happily in school while the rest of my family grieved over his death.
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