Fifty years ago, a woman received this photo album as a gift from her daughter-in-law. A gift, in part, to commemorate the birth of the family’s first grandchild; a baby girl. A gift that, by the looks of it, was carried for years, treasured, and looked at often.
At least that’s how I imagine it.
The small album contains sixteen photographs, dated from November 1963 to December 1964. Fifteen photographs of the first grandchild and one of the second.
And that’s where it stops.
As it sometimes happens, the marriage between the son and daughter-in-law fell apart. The children were taken away. Not terribly far, but in the early 60’s, it was far enough.
After a bit of time, irregular and stressful visitations petered out to nothingness, and eventually the son signed away his parental rights and the children were adopted, had their names changed, and were not seen again.
For a long time, these 16 photographs were it. All a grandmother had to prove that the little children she’d cuddled and cooed at actually existed.
I’ve been thinking about that a lot since I received this album. I wonder how the circumstances affected her. I think of how I would feel if either of my two granddaughters would be taken from my life. My throat hurts just thinking about it. I don’t think I could bear it. And I don’t know how she did. There was no such thing as “Grandparents’ Rights” back then.
But I’m glad she had this little book, these sixteen pictures. This little bit of memory of the couple of years that her grandchildren lived next door. Grandchildren I’m certain she saw every day. And missed every day.
The little girl in the photographs was me. And I still struggle with this part of my life that isn’t talked about. These photographs, so precious to a grandmother, are now so precious to me.
And I’m glad I’m now in a position to hand other grandmothers photographs of their grandchildren. I just hope that it’s not the only thing they’re left with.
That really needed a tissue warning!