This is the letter that I should have written to you a long time ago.
I’m sorry that I am not one that excels themself in keeping in touch with others. I’m sorry that you called me the other week to congratulate me on passing my driving test and never returned it. I’m sorry that there once was a gap in which I didn’t see you for three years.
But as I sit here amongst the broken glass and damp photographs with the sand falling between us quicker than I dare to believe, all I muster is the dust gathered apology that I should have given you years ago.
Because I want you to know that I love you. I have loved you for as long as I can remember. I remember once spending Christmas at your house and remember you smiling down on me as I tore the paper off that stuffed rabbit you once gave me. I remember when you took me to the park and held my hand. I also vaguely remember the funeral, where you watched him slowly taken away from you.
Most of all, I remember the fact that you always smiled from a distance, because you never wanted to intrude; you never wanted to be a burden, or a hindrance or any form of convenience to anybody’s day. That’s why you never called, and that’s why you let all those months pass by: because you didn’t want anybody to feel as if you were a burden.
And that’s why I’m guilt stricken, sobbing and lying on the floor: because that’s why we have only just found out that this thing has been destroying you: that this devilish disease has crippled you from the inside out, unnoticed by all of us.
And I’m so sorry that I let you feel this way.
I’m so sorry that I left you fade into the background.
I’m so sorry that I didn’t make you carry on speaking on the phone.
I’m so sorry that I never visited.
I’m so sorry for not returning that phone call.
I’m so sorry for not being the granddaughter that you deserved.