When my grandmother recently passed away at the age of 92, I found myself reflecting on the overall journey of our relationship together. It wasn’t always easy, and it didn’t start with warmth. When she came to the United States from the Philippines to help my mom take care of my sister and me, I was still in elementary school. Instead of feeling grateful, I struggled to connect with her. Our initial encounters were filled with tension, misunderstandings, and mutual frustration. Looking back, I now realize that what seemed like animosity was just the growing pains of two very different lives adjusting to coexist in a strange new world.

But tragedy has a way of breaking down barriers. When one of my grandmother’s seven children took his own life, the atmosphere around my family shifted. I was just a child, hiding in the stairwell, listening to my mom and grandmother cry and scream at each other in their native language about the news. I didn’t understand their words, but the emotions were unmistakable. Even at that young age, I intuitively knew that my grandmother was grappling with immense guilt, wishing she could have been there, maybe even to prevent what had happened.