Then she raised my mom, because my grandpa couldn’t make it work with his wife and didn’t know where to put her. So, my mom ended up with Grandma. Later, Grandma raised me too, because my mom had me. Grandma was always raising someone — that’s just what grandmas do.

Grandma-Great-Grandma was tall and sturdy. Her name was Kapitalina — pretty normal for someone born in the revolutionary era.

She had this big wart above her lip, but it kind of gave her character. She wore a chunky gold wedding ring on her left hand — it was wide and bold. By the time I was born, my great-grandfather had already passed — a heart attack before he even hit fifty. Looking at the old photos, they were a stunning couple! Like movie stars, or maybe it was just how old photos always had this cinematic vibe.

I was growing up, and Grandma was getting older. At some point, that wig started collecting dust, hanging on the mirror, and her shoes lost their heels. It felt like she was getting smaller. In every way. And we stopped listening to her the way we used to.

Every morning, Grandma made me porridge — and it was always amazing, with sugar. She’d serve it in a bowl with little chicks around the edges and feed it to me with a spoon — for Mom, for Dad, for Grandpa, for Grandma, for my preschool teacher, for the girl I played with at the park, and then for all the characters from those Brazilian soap operas we watched together. That’s how the porridge got eaten.

Grandma worked as a night guard at a factory, and sometimes she’d take me with her. It was this massive space with rows of old phones — the kind with the rotary dials. It felt like a magical place, especially for people who liked making calls. The phones would ring non-stop, and I thought it was the coolest thing ever. I wanted a job like that when I grew up.

Then, one day, I suddenly became a schoolgirl. As I’ve said before, I hated school — never liked it, never would.

Some things caught me completely off guard, like the time I found out it was New Year’s Eve from a neighbor kid. And sure enough, we ended up sitting down at night, eating salads. Another time, I realized it was my birthday — people came over, congratulated me, and there was a feast. School was no different — one day, they just put ribbons on my head and dragged me somewhere. I didn’t even know what was going on.

Every day, I’d come home from school, hang up my uniform in the wardrobe like Grandma taught me, do my homework — and life went on as usual. I also wrote poems — a whole bunch about the seasons. I don’t remember them, and they weren’t genius or anything, but I loved doing it.

Then, we moved into a new apartment, and everything that held my little world together just fell apart. The first time I stepped into the new room, I realized it — first, it was way smaller, and there was no fireplace. The apartment was falling apart, the building was old with a back entrance, and honestly, it was just a mess. It couldn’t have been worse. It was a total dump. The neighbors were just as sketchy: a loud, drunk family, a cop who was scared of them and put an iron door on his room, and a family with a weird, silent mom who smoked in the kitchen non-stop.

And that’s where I ended up. Sometimes, I wonder why I don’t think of myself as marginal. If you look at where I grew up, it’s a total rags-to-riches story — from one communal apartment to another! I lived in communal apartments until I was 20, and that whole environment shaped me. You can’t erase that.

So, on the first day in the new apartment, the wallpaper really stood out to me — it was striped in different shades of gray, not floral like in our old room. I actually liked that. Everything else? Not so much.

Mom helped us move and promised she’d stay with me in the new room that night. It was late. She left her bag behind and said she’d be back in half an hour. That half hour felt like forever.

I lay there hugging her bag, listening for the elevator — you could hear it when someone called it. I stayed like that for hours, then finally fell asleep. When I woke up, she was still gone. That wasn’t unusual. She never did stay the night. She disappeared for almost a year after that, popping up occasionally with visits and phone calls.

Life in the new place was just awful: no friends, no toys.
17 square meters of pure hell, a drunk grandpa, and cockroaches. But hey, there was a new TV with a remote, and it had a bunch of channels. But for some reason, we had no money — meals were just instant noodles.

Then Grandma-Great-Grandma fell outside and didn’t get up. I was sick, it was winter, and she’d fallen before — it wasn’t a big deal at her age. She came back home by herself. The doctors came, and the diagnosis for elderly people — broken hip. Crutches appeared, and after that, she couldn’t walk anymore — not to the store, not anywhere. Things got even harder — she just sat on the couch all day. Grandpa tried, but he was bad at it.

Mom occasionally showed up — she was living with a guy from the next yard now. Not intentionally, it just happened. The first time I saw him was when Mom took me to a party at his place. It was this huge apartment, and I remember her and her friend whispering that he was rich and she should hook up with him. Which she did. They put me to sleep in one of the rooms, but I got scared and went looking for her. I opened a door — it was dark, but in the light from the hallway, I saw Andrew on top of her.

After a while, she moved in with him in a room in the communal apartment. She started picking me up from school herself, and we’d go visit her.

She’d cook instant noodles, put a plate on a stool in front of the TV, and we’d watch Argentine soap operas together. Andrew was almost never home. In the evening,
she’d bring me back to Grandma and Grandpa’s. It wasn’t much, but I loved that time. A couple of times, I even stayed the night.

One day, Mom came to get me from school with big bags and her stuff sticking out. “I’m coming to you?” “I’m coming to you,” she said. She’d broken up with Andrew.
I was thrilled that she was going to live with us, but that same evening, she left to stay with a friend. We stopped seeing each other.

Meanwhile, New Year’s was approaching. I’ll never forget it — it was the worst. Grandpa made olivieh — first off, he was terrible at cooking. Second, instead of sausage, he used raw hot dogs because we couldn’t afford actual sausage. It was awful, but we ate it, and after all the instant noodles, it actually tasted kind of good.

Under the Christmas tree, there was a small bag with a Kinder Surprise and a couple of chocolates. Compared to the big bags of sweets, dolls, and toys we used to get, this was just sad. It was hard to fake excitement, but I was thankful for whatever I got. Later, I overheard Grandma talking on the phone, saying she’d given Grandpa some money to buy a gift. They didn’t forget, and that really moved me.

That’s how we lived — somehow. Grandpa would take me to school in the morning, angry and tired. But when he picked me up, he always had a smile on his face. I felt embarrassed that Grandpa wasn’t sober, but at least he showed up.

Eventually, Mom had to take me. I think it was Grandma’s ultimatum — she couldn’t handle the kid with Grandpa anymore. And that’s when it hit me: am I really going to live with Mom now?

We took my documents from the old school, and I moved in with Mom.

Soon, Grandma was all alone — Grandpa had gone to work as a night watchman.
She managed — once a week, Mom and I visited, bought groceries for the week. Grandma cooked, did laundry, and kept things clean. She’d lost a lot of weight.
Between when things were still okay and when it all went downhill, there were summer trips to the kids’ camp, and Grandma’s life was mostly peaceful.

When I turned 18, Grandma’s health started getting worse. We visited her every day — cooked, cleaned, because she couldn’t do it herself anymore.

Then she had a stroke, and she started forgetting who we were sometimes. Mostly, she just lay there.

One day, I was at work — I already had a job. Mom called, but I didn’t pick up. When I called her back, she told me Grandma had passed away. I thought it was a joke. How could she die? This couldn’t be real. Nobody in our family had died before — at least, not while I was there.

I went to that apartment. I walked into the room — Grandma was lying on the couch. Grandpa was crying next to her. We hugged and cried together.

Some people came, laid a sheet on the floor, put Grandma on it, and took her away.
The next time I saw her was at the crematorium. That was my first funeral. I couldn’t eat anything at the memorial.

A whole life, fading before my eyes. A whole story, gone.

I dream about Grandma all the time.