IT WAS the end of the summer in 1939 when my grandma from my mother’s side told grandpa, “I’m pregnant again.” He could tell his wife was pretty upset. They already had 5 children, and the oldest one married the fall before.
“What am I going to do? I’m old and my daughter is pregnant. I can’t have a child younger than my grandson,” she decided and run to the end of the garden to hide behind the trees and cry.
Her husband looked tough, but had a soft and carrying heart. He filled a mug with fresh water from the well and went to find his wife.
She was sitting on the grass, tears streaming on her cheeks. “What would people say?”
He crouched next to her and held her in his arms. “People would say that you have a husband and you two are having a baby.”
She saw him smirking under his mustache and pushed him away. “Stop laughing! I’m going to throw myself in the well.” She stood up and run to the courtyard. He reached her and grabbed her in his arms again. “You don’t do such thing! We will love this baby.”
It took a few weeks for grandma to come at peace with herself, time when she wasn’t left alone for one minute. There were either her husband with her, or her oldest daughter, to watch her.
“I will take the baby from you and raise him or her with mine,” the pregnant daughter told her mother for a few times. But little by little, her mother could feel a sentiment of love for the little one growing inside her.
That was how my mother came into picture during the 2nd WW and both her parents loved her to pieces.
PHOTO – Mom at 17 years old
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