09/26/2024
Three Generations, One Journey
There is a certain weight that comes with uncovering the truth, a weight I hadn’t fully understood until I stood on the edge of my family’s story, looking back across three generations of women: my grandmother, my mother, and myself. At the age of 55, I found a piece of the puzzle that had been missing for decades.
My search led me to discover that my grandmother, during the turmoil of World War II, became pregnant while working for the Ministry of Defense. It was her boss who fathered my mother—a man already married. The relationship between them was fleeting, perhaps destined to fade before it truly began. What my grandmother knew, and when she learned it, remains a mystery I still wrestle with. I wonder if she realized the futility of their bond before or after the truth of his marriage came to light.
But there’s something deeper that I’ve been reflecting on. Last night, while watching a documentary on Indigenous teachings, the narrator spoke about the biological connection between a woman, her child, and her grandchild. A baby girl is born with all her ova, meaning that I—like every woman—once existed, even if for a brief moment, inside my grandmother. There’s something powerful in that thought. For a time, my mother’s life and mine were intertwined within my grandmother's body, her experiences shaping us both before we ever came into the world.
The documentary went on to say that knowledge is passed on a cellular level through DNA, from grandmother to grandchild. It makes me wonder: what knowledge have I received from her? What parts of her life, her struggles, and her strength do I carry within me without even knowing? And how has it acted upon my own choices, my own search for belonging?
This connection, stretching across generations, gives me a sense of groundedness. Meeting one of my grandfather’s granddaughters, a woman about my age, has only deepened my curiosity. We share blood, a bond that neither of us asked for, yet here we are—two women shaped by the choices of others, standing on opposite sides of a history we are only beginning to understand.
How often did my grandmother visit my mother while she was in care? My mother, frail and fragile, spent her first years in and out of hospitals. Did they ever find the cause of her illness? And what of my grandfather—did he know about her? Did his wife? I doubt they did, though I wonder what secrets might have been shared behind closed doors.
This journey of search and reunion has given me clarity, but it also serves as a reminder that the past is never as straightforward as we wish. It is a mosaic of stories untold, secrets kept, and truths that only reveal themselves piece by piece. Perhaps that’s the knowledge my grandmother passed down to me through her DNA—the resilience to keep asking questions, even when the answers feel out of reach.
