A Grandmother I Don't Remember Much, And One My Daughter Always Will
Last weekend, we celebrated my daughter Athena's birthday at Disneyland and Disney. We were surrounded by family, laughing, waiting in line, chasing popcorn flavors, and making memories.
But something quiet tugged at me during the trip.
When I was a child, my grandmother went with us to Disneyland in California. But I have no real memories of spending time with her. She stayed mostly with my younger siblings. I always felt like the outcast in her eyes—and I never understood why. She was harder on me. Stricter. Quicker to punish.
Of that family trip, I remember almost nothing of her. Just a blur.
And then I watched as Satoko’s mother—Athena’s obaachan—held her hand, helped feed her, bought her favorite toy, and lit up every time Athena laughed. She wasn’t just watching from the sidelines.
She was present. Fully.
It touched my heart more deeply than I expected.
Sometimes healing sneaks up on you. Not as a grand revelation, but as a quiet moment in a crowded park.
It reminded me of something Winnie the Pooh once said:
“Sometimes the smallest things take up the most room in your heart.”
This weekend, it was true.
And if you’re reading this and feeling distant from your own family—or struggling with what’s been lost or never had—I see you.
I think there’s still room for new moments. For small, healing joys.
Even in Disneyland.
いいなと思ったら応援しよう！
もし応援したいと思っていただけたら、とてもうれしいです。
あなたの応援は、誰かの一番つらい日に寄り添う人を育てる力になります。
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本当にありがとうございます。