The Family I Chose: Lessons in Love from a Time That No Longer Exists

How the memories of my non-biological grandad taught me to embrace a blended family

Photo by freestocks.org from Pexels.

When I was young (until 11), my grandmother and her partner lived on the floor below mine.

She was divorced, and my biological grandfather died six months after I was born. I never met him — well, of course, I met him until I was six months old — I have no memory of him. He looks like my father in the pictures, but to me, he is only my biological grandfather.

As a child, I was taught not to call my grandmother’s partner “grandad.” I was told only to call him by his name, Sandro. That was a clear sign from my parents. An implicit message that I only processed when I grew up, saying: Sandro is not your grandfather.

Yet, in my memory, he was my grandfather. He was the one on my grandmother’s side. He was the one who hugged me when I visited my grandmother’s apartment. He was the one with whom I played building train tracks in the living room. He was the one who wished me goodnight when I went to sleep at their place.

It did not matter that I was not his biological granddaughter. He truly loved my grandmother and me. And I remember the love. I remember the love I had for him and my grandma.