I never saw it coming—that I’d have a grandma who didn’t like me. And I don’t believe she ever did, at least not as long as I can remember. I have no memory of her extending kindness toward me. This puzzled me because everyone else in my life—family, friends, church—seemed to embrace me with open arms. I was pretty sure her reaction wasn’t personal. I never saw her being affectionate with anybody.

What I did see—what I remember most vividly—was her cane.

My grandmother, Winnie Waugh, walked with a wooden cane for as long as I knew her. It was smooth, polished, dark brown, and plain—a simple curve for her hand and a rubber tip to grip the floor. At 4’10”, heavy, and wearing a size 4 shoe, she needed it for balance. But to me, the cane wasn’t a mobility aid; it was a warning. She would raise it high and say, “You better behave or I’ll smack you with this.” That cane loomed as large in my childhood as she did.

And yet my sister swears that when she was little, Grandma taught her canasta and bridge, and they spent hours together at the card table. I could hardly imagine the woman who pointed a cane at me sitting still long enough to shuffle a deck.

Grandma had Mama late in life, so by the time I came around, she must have been in her late seventies, heading toward her eighties. In those days, that was very old. Still, her response to me never felt good. I learned early that while many people might love me, some simply will not—and there isn’t much I can do to change their minds.

Before age reduced her world, Grandma had been a force. She once served as statewide president of the Daughters of the American Revolution and even addressed the Texas House of Representatives. She was known in Bastrop for giving food and clothing to the poor and escorting women prisoners safely by train. She was headstrong, plainspoken, and no-nonsense—and her Scottish husband adored her.

But the grandmother I knew lived in the long shadow of who she’d been. She had raised four children, buried a son, lost her husband, and been uprooted from her home to live with us. Purpose gone, strength waning, she was filled with frustration. She was not a soft, cuddly grandmother who baked cookies. She was the kind who marched into the kitchen with her suitcases packed and announced, “Someone needs to take me to the train station. Good-bye and good riddance.”

I’ve encountered several people like her over the years—people with whom connection simply wasn’t possible. I tried, but often my trying made things worse. Eventually, I accepted that I am not everyone’s cup of tea. That’s okay. Not everyone is mine either. Still, I never understood making that dislike so obvious rather than quietly accepting we won’t all be best friends.

Looking back, I can almost feel her rage at aging—the injustice of it, the narrowing of her world, the loss of autonomy. As I grow older myself, I understand better just how trapped she must have felt. Unlike her, I hope to meet old age with more grace—to be a grandmother who engenders love, not fear.

Even in her fury, she radiated power. “Stop running in this house,” she’d bark, pointing that cane straight at me. I stopped immediately. She could not control aging, loss, or displacement—but she could control hallway traffic. That cane helped her reclaim a sliver of authority in a life shrinking by the day.

Maybe she did me a service. I learned early that you can’t please everyone. I am stronger and more resilient because of it. Still, I have no idea what it feels like to have a grandmother whose face lights up when she sees you or who pulls you into a warm hug. (Fortunately, my parents and siblings offered that freely.)

I now see she was fighting to the end—fighting decline, frustration, invisibility. She lived to be ninety-six. Stubbornness surely played a part. Maybe the cane did too. It was her last tool, her last defense, her last expression of will.

Perhaps that lack of warmth is why it’s so important to me that my grandkids know, without any doubt, that I love them deeply. I want each of them to feel they are more than enough just as they are—flaws and all—and that I will love them here on earth and after I’m gone. Each one occupies a special place in my heart, and that will never change. Period.

People do better when they feel loved.

I am grateful I had others who expressed their affection freely.

That has made all the difference.