We often reject what we want most.

I had this thought today, what if my grandmother rejected the idea of my mom’s new husband so much because it was the second chance she never got to have.

I pictured myself composing the text to my mother, “What if grandma was so awful because you were getting the second chance that she was never going to get?”

Then I rolled my eyes before I could even begin the search for my ever elusive phone. The conversation would lead to nothing but a more than likely weepy mother. If I even thought some of the things I wished to voice, I could see her crumbling before me.

That is the beauty of her though, we will never have to talk about the hard things.

My thoughts continued to think of my grandmother. Of her loss. She wholeheartedly rejected the thought of this thing that, I fully believe, she at some point must have wanted herself. I know because it’s a move I would pull. I would try to be so against something I knew I could never have. That may not be her dream now, but it must have been once.

I wonder if maybe we’re all more alike than I ever could have dreamed.

I picture her in her thirties, pushing her bangs from her face, staring out that window overlooking the land. His voice in the background, growing foggy as he droned on about her failures of the day. She wonders what it would be like to be loved by a man who cared about nothing but assuring her that she was everything. She thinks of how he would come in, wrap her in his arms from behind, whispering in her ear that he thought about her all day, asking if it was his turn to make dinner tonight. She would smile, thinking about how different this man was. How somehow he managed to prove all the others wrong. He would heal the wounds that began their creation before her first steps. He was not full of criticism and harsh words. He never shamed or made her feel small. He was life, and freedom, and love.

I don’t think she longs for this kind of life anymore. I think now she longs for the safety of her own company. But I think the younger version of her sometimes peeks her head out, reminding her that they wished for that life once. For the second chance at having a life loved.

This version of me cries for her. I reach through time to the teenager being forced into a decision she didn’t want to make. I hold her close, feeling her anguish at her lack of ability to choose the life she wanted. I hug the woman who dreamed of her husband changing, and being someone she looked forward to seeing at night. I hold the hand of the woman who probably cried desperately as she felt all those emotions from her former self, as she watched her young teenage daughter make the same mistake that she had. I feel her fierceness as she told herself, she will not be like me.

I wish I could tell her that her daughter wouldn’t be like her. But in a lot of ways, she would be. She would be trapped loveless for too many years. She would warped in cycles. However, she would be freed. She would find someone who loves her in every stage of weight, who does the dishes, who never makes her feel small. She would get the second chance.

What I do not have to wish to tell you is, the baby she carried would be different. She would see you for who you are. Someone to be loved, cherished, and appreciated. She would settle for nothing less. Her husband would tell her to order both when she couldn’t choose. He will vacuum because he knows she hates it. He will get the help he needs because he wants them to be the best versions of and for each other. He will wrap her in his arms when he gets home because she is his breath of fresh air. He will encourage her dreams, ask her opinions, and value her knowledge. He will look at her body the same way even as she knows it has changed with time. He will teach her what it means to apologize first. He will love her but leave her wild and free. She will run in that freedom, always reaching and hoping that one day you’ll join her. Only you hold the key to the chains that keep you bound.

If I’ve learned anything after all my years on earth, it is this. Old is never as old as we think it is. Do the thing. Live the life. You’re never too old, but you can be too late. I hope younger you can hear me across the lines of time. I hope she reminds you of who you once were and that you set her free.