Will you know me in heaven?

What do you look like at 10? Did your skew front toothies at last straighten out?

Do you still have your glorious uncontrollable bush of pure red hair?

I wouldn’t know, because I haven’t seen you in three years, my darling grandchild. And it makes me sad. Not angry, just incredibly sad.

Because every year I see your dad on this day curling up into a little ball not facing the world.

And every year I have to tell my son: “I don’t know what to do.”

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But I maybe do know. I can, as your Ouma, launch a “visiting rights” action. And probably not get very far because your mother will cite my “red wine” again.

Your dad can, as a father loving you so deeply, try to open his mouth in court and maybe shout over your mother’s lawyer who talks over him – and every time he gets back from court I hear: “Nobody asked me…”.

In eight year’s time you are going to knock on my front door saying: “I want to meet my family.”

I hope, in any case. In eight year’s time you are going to look at your dad accusingly saying: “Why didn’t you fight for me?”

And in eight year’s time we won’t have answers. I promise. I’d like to ask you one question only: “What were you told about us not seeing you?”

Because I know how much you love this house; how you cried every time you have to go “home”.

“But, Ouma, this is my home…” You have your room still – not that you were allowed to sleep over for years.

You have your little Yorkshire terrier – happy third birthday, Rascal – still wondering… Where have you gone, Girl?

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We all want to know but are blocked from even singing on your special day hardly a week after your dad’s.

Do you still remember his birthday? Do you still remember our love you shared?

My heart breaks at women forging a new life cutting out their old loves. My heart breaks at the knife I see you twist into this family’s hearts.

My heart breaks that you can’t be woman enough to know that little girl is all of ours.

My heart breaks for my son who can’t love his daughter because – I don’t know – you decided you are moving on?

I hope you read this. Because your daughter will knock on our door in eight year’s time when you can’t control her any more.

I may not be alive, but wow, I’ll see the love you will never have.

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