Generational Abuse

As we grow up, we often hear stories passed down from our parents and grandparents. If we’re fortunate, we might even hear tales from our great-grandparents on both sides of the family. I was lucky to have many grandparents actively involved in my childhood, and for a long time, I believed I knew everything about my biological family on my dad’s side. My dad’s parents met when they were young and eventually got married. Before starting a family, they both built successful careers. My grandmother was a trailblazer, becoming one of the first women to serve in the Air Force. Today, she is honored at the Women’s Memorial in Arlington Cemetery. My grandfather, on the other hand, followed in his father’s footsteps. His father, my great-grandpa, founded his own construction business. When he passed away, he left his estate to my grandfather and his brother. It was later that I discovered my great-grandfather had more than two children. In fact, he had two older children who received much less from his estate compared to the younger siblings. It was believed this decision stemmed from the notion that the older children were already working and had established their lives. This choice, however, created lasting resentment. The older siblings were so upset by the unequal distribution that they cut ties and never spoke to their younger siblings again.

My dad's mom was a hardworking and dedicated woman. She spent 30 years working at a shop before retiring, where she served as an office manager, providing both income and insurance for her family. My dad’s father, on the other hand, was a missionary who started his career laying bricks, earning just one dollar per brick. His speed and efficiency were unmatched—he could finish a job in one day that typically took three. However, one of his customers refused to pay him the full amount for his hard work. In fact, the customer didn’t pay him at all. From that moment on, my grandfather decided to pace himself, ensuring each job took three days so no one could accuse him of overcharging. As his business grew, my grandfather invested in essential equipment, which he stored on his property. However, the township soon intervened, claiming the equipment parked in his front yard was an eyesore. To resolve this, my grandfather built a privacy fence to shield the equipment from view. Despite his efforts, a township worker returned and insisted he remove the equipment entirely, even though it was no longer visible from the street. Refusing to back down, my grandfather met with the township worker the next day at their office. He inquired about obtaining junkyard rights for his property. Though the worker was clearly displeased, my grandfather discovered a legal workaround. He purchased the junkyard rights, and to this day, the property remains a functioning junkyard—standing as a testament to his resourcefulness and determination.

I've often heard stories about my grandfather, painting him as a heavy drinker with a reputation for being quite the ladies' man. One of the most talked-about tales involves a woman showing up at my grandparents' doorstep, claiming she was pregnant with his child. According to the story, the woman confronted my grandmother with this news. Calm and composed, my grandmother asked her how much money she would need for an abortion. The woman, however, firmly stated she wasn’t planning to have one. Without missing a beat, my grandmother handed her a check and said, “This should be enough—either for an abortion or 18 years of child support.” The memory of her sharp wit and unwavering resolve remains the highlight of this tale.

My uncle recently shared something that surprised me—not everything I’d heard was true. My grandfather was a genuinely good man. Yes, he might have enjoyed a drink or two, but he always made sure to be sober by dinner. Otherwise, Grandma wouldn’t have hesitated to show him the door until he straightened up.

My grandfather was a quiet man, not one to talk much. When I was a young woman, I decided to reconnect with my dad’s side of the family. One day, I stopped by their house, and Grandpa was busy preparing the camper to go pan for gold. I jumped out of the car and called out, “Hey, Grandpa, is Grandma home?” He simply replied, “No.” I was about to leave, but to my surprise, he started talking to me. I was stunned and overjoyed to have a conversation with him! While I can’t recall exactly what he said, I’ll never forget the feeling of hearing his voice and sharing that special moment.

Sadly, that winter, Grandpa never got the chance to go panning for gold. Though he never complained of pain, when he finally mentioned some discomfort in his back, Grandma knew it was serious. He went to the hospital, where he was diagnosed with cancer. There was no treatment available to help him. He spent his final days in a nursing home, where he passed away. His quiet strength and that cherished conversation will always stay with me.