Dead Grandmas Will Always Nose Into Your Love Life
LADYBUG
My grandmother died two years ago, but she visits every Sunday to cook me lunch and dig into my love life.
“Are you married yet?” she asks from her position at the chopping board.
I’ve had to cram myself on my bed, back pressed to the wall. My flat isn’t big enough for two people, especially when one of the two is a large woman, not at all diminished in death.
“Not since last week.”
Biology homework surrounds me like enemy forces; it’s impossible to focus with Gran in the room. I should’ve started studying ages ago but didn’t, and now I have a test tomorrow and a guest who won’t stop talking.
“Forthright” was the term most used at the funeral, followed by “generous,” and occasionally, but only whispered, “a bloody pain in the arse.”
Gran sighs, and you’d almost think she still had air in her lungs. “I was married by your age.”
She’s told me so a dozen times, and I don’t have the energy for this conversation today.
“Why don’t you ever visit Mum or Aunt Ellie or the cousins? Sarah’s dead uncle Mel has a rota for family visits.”
A cupboard door slams, even though no one is close enough to touch it, and Gran whirls on me. “You know I don’t like that word!”
It’s my turn to sigh.
I try to block her out, but impatience and irritation conspire to make my textbooks indecipherable — not that they’re any easier to read ordinarily.
Ladybugs blanket the window, as they always do when Gran visits. They’re packed tight, but a few spears of sunlight cut through the chinks.
Gran catches the direction of my gaze and curls her lip, as though the bugs aren’t here because of her. “Nasty pests.”
I don’t bother to disagree.
A notification lights up my phone.
“Who’s making you smile like that?” Gran asks.
I switch off the screen before she can think to look more closely. “No one.”
“Is it a boy?”
“Would you please drop the interest in my love life for five minutes?” I don’t mean to snap. But it is a boy, and if she finds out, she’ll tell everyone. I’m not ready for that yet.
Gran’s shoes squeak on the linoleum floor as she takes a step and raises a warning finger. “Don’t use that tone with me, young lady.”
The first of the ladybugs flies away.
“Where do you even go,” I ask, “when you’re not here?”
“I don’t want to talk about this.”
“Why not?” I want to stand, to gain the advantage of height, but my homework blocks me.
A ticking clock is in my chest, weighing me down with the knowledge that I have nineteen hours to memorise a semester’s worth of information, and here I am arguing with a dead woman.
So if anger makes me say things that I wouldn’t usually say, it’s not my fault.
“You died. Why can’t you admit it and move on?”
“Because you weren’t there.” She spits the words with such venom that I flinch. “Months gone by without a visit. Months! You called sometimes, but only for a quick chat, always between tasks, always begging off after five minutes.”
“I was busy. And there was never anything stopping you from calling me.”
“I did. You were always in the middle of something.”
She turns to check on lunch, but I don’t miss the tears shining silver on her pale skin.
Twenty-four hours is no time at all. When you subtract sleep, cooking and eating, self-care and cleaning, work, school, hobbies, and commutes, you’re left with mere moments, minutes salvaged from hours.
No time at all.
“You have a life to live,” Gran says, her voice steady but quiet. “All I wanted was to be a part of it.”
Another ladybug withdraws. A tightness settles in my throat: the pressure of time running out. Questions I meant to ask her choke me, all the conversations I want to have, all the pieces of her life I don’t know.
“Can I help with…?” I nod at the kitchen.
She shakes her head and wipes her cheeks. “It’s nearly ready.”
Priorities. Living in the moment. Carpe bloody diem battling it out with my big weakness — that I can’t appreciate what’s in front of me until I know I’ll lose it.
“I do miss you, you know.” I blurt the words like a confession.
She wavers where the sunlight touches her, solidity turning into transparency. “I’m always here, sweetheart,” she says, ever so gently.
I crawl off the bed — to hug her, to tell her how much I love her, but our time is done.
The ladybugs leave all at once, swirls of red and black swarming from every window in the city.
The beating of many wings vibrates in my chest, rattling the ache that has lived there for two years, the ache of regret and wasted moments, the terrible knowledge that time is finite.
The insects disappear, and the world suffers an overwhelming silence.
My grandmother is gone.
The oven pings. Maybe every time she asks about my love life, the question isn’t “Are you married yet?” or “Do you have a boyfriend?” It’s “Are you happy?”
I close my eyes against a sudden sting.
“I love you.”
The words resonate between my ribs, strong enough for her to hear wherever she is now.
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