The Terrible Cost of Not Forgiving a Family Member

Burned into my memory is a day that would affect my family for decades.

May 23, 2025

It Started with a Phone Call

Sitting in the living room, out of view, I could hear my mom in the kitchen, on the plain beige rotary-dial wall phone. I heard the sobs and blubbery words, her voice vacillating between extreme distress and anger. I could sense her body trembling with every response. I couldn’t make out the speaker’s words, but it was Grandpa’s voice.

I can’t remember the exact disagreement. But it had something to do with Mom’s brother, Uncle Walt, who was living with us at the time.

two young sisters walk arm in arm away from the camera — photo credit: Pixabay

I’m guessing she was asking her dad to let Uncle Walt stay at his place (which was about the same size as ours). Having Uncle Walt in our small 2-bedroom house all the time, unemployed and not really helping out with anything, was taking on toll on my parent’s marriage.

I’m guessing Grandpa was telling her why that wouldn’t work, even though his house was about the same size as ours. Actually, in terms of square footage, his was a little larger. I’m guessing he was chastising her for not being a supportive sister.

Regardless, after that horrible phone conversation, Grandpa resolved not to talk to Mom anymore. I guess he thought he was punishing her for being a bad daughter.

But he was punishing the entire family.

Mom Made Some End Runs

Grandpa forbade Grandma from speaking to Mom. Of course, my sister and I—ages 5 and 8 at the time—could no longer go to their house for sleep-overs. No more Christmases together. No more Easters. No more anything.

Well, almost no more anything.

Grandpa worked at night, driving a cab. So while he slept all day, Grandma would sometimes arrange to meet Mom at Kaufmann’s department store in downtown Pittsburgh (PA). Once in a while, I would be with her. We would meet on a certain floor—one that was less traveled—just outside the elevator.

One year, Grandma managed somehow to come to Reunion (our week-long church camp). That was probably the last time she saw her own sister, Madge, who also managed to get away that week.

At camp that year, my sister and I got to spend time with cousins we didn’t often see. It was a reunion for part of our blood family, not only for our church family.

One Day the Silence was Broken

One frosty January morning, after eight years of grandfatherly silence, the phone rang—7:00 am. That call taught me ever after to be suspicious of early morning phone calls.

It was Uncle Walt, telling my mother that Grandma had passed away from a stroke the night before. Grandpa had come home from work to find her sitting in front of the TV in her usual chair, like she had just fallen asleep. She was only in her early 60s.

Grandpa and Mom reconciled at the funeral home. I remember Grandpa falling on Mom’s neck, sobbing uncontrollably, finally regretting the years of being unwilling to forgive or even to speak.

Next thing I knew, Grandpa was living in our basement. We had a larger house by then. My sister and I had our own rooms. The basement wasn’t much of a place to stay, although it did have a bathroom and it opened to a covered porch. I guess it was a way for Grandpa and Mom to reconnect.

It was a way for me to reconnect as well. Grandpa would drive me to school and music lessons, and we would chat. It was almost like normal again.

It was God’s grace to allow us that time as a family. Six short months after Grandma left us, Mom passed away from a mis-diagnosed aneurysm.

Grandpa Hadn’t Changed

It wasn’t long before Grandpa moved out. It seems he took offense to something my dad either did or didn’t do. Once again, Grandpa was completely out of my life. I never did figure out what that was all about.

For years, thinking about the situation with Mom, I just couldn’t understand how someone could hold a grudge for so long, especially against their child. Mom appeared willing to be reconciled almost as soon as the argument was over. But not Grandpa.

Only death had broken the dam he had erected between them.

The irony was that eventually Grandpa got angry with Uncle Walt—the very person he accused my mother of not caring about. And, once again, Grandpa stopped all communication between himself and his child.

In fact, Uncle Walt passed away about 15 years after Mom. When Grandpa was informed of his son’s passing, he replied, “I don’t have a son.” And he refused to attend the funeral.

But I Learned to Persist

I decided in college, a few years after Mom’s passing, that I was going to learn from this example and not be drawn into great periods of familial silence. In fact, I made a pact with two of my cousins that we would not be the cause of such a thing in our generation.

I even took steps to reconnect with Grandpa.

I sent him an invitation to my college graduation. It came back marked “Return to Sender” in Grandpa’s distinctive block printing.

Undeterred, I sent him an invitation to my wedding. Once again, it came back marked “Return to Sender.”

A few years later, having gotten a divorce, I sent him an invitation to my second wedding. Got that one back as well.

Finally, after the birth of my first child, I sent him a full letter. I told him he was a great-grandfather. I expressed a wish to visit and introduce him to his great-grandson.

And amazingly, this envelope didn’t come back to me. It wasn’t answered, but it didn’t come back.

The Door Opened Just a Tiny Crack

Then Uncle Paul (my great-uncle, Madge’s husband, and my grandfather’s brother-in-law) started dropping in at church, mostly to see the new baby. Uncle Paul always was a sucker for babies.

And Uncle Paul told me he had stopped in, unannounced, to see Grandpa. Grandpa had gotten my letter and told Paul about it.

Still no direct response was forthcoming from Grandpa. But one day, Uncle Paul showed up at church with Grandma’s Bible. The one Mom had bought her. The one with Grandma’s name stamped on the front cover.

Grandpa thought maybe I’d like to have it.

I wrote Grandpa another letter when my second son was born. And once again, I asked if he’d like me to visit. No response.

I often thought of just dropping by in those days. Uncle Paul had managed it. But I feared a scene. I feared something would happen to scare my children. I just feared.

I made excuses. Too busy as a new mom. Partly true, but mostly excuses.

And Then It Was Over

Then, a year before I moved from Pittsburgh to South Carolina, Grandpa died. He was in his early 90s.

I got the call not from a relative, but from a funeral director. He told me I was Grandpa’s closest living relative. It had taken him a couple of days to track me down.

He needed me to sign off on the cremation order, pronto. It seemed that although Grandpa had left everything to his late girlfriend’s son—let’s call him Dave—the son didn’t qualify to sign off.

As a condition of signing, I insisted that Grandpa’s ashes be interred in Grandma’s burial plot. I sensed that, had I not done this, Dave would have thrown them into the trash.

Nevertheless, Dave called and invited me to Grandpa’s trailer. He said there was something Grandpa wanted me to have: Grandma’s sewing chair.

So I went to the trailer and picked it up.

As far as I know, no one else was left anything. Dave got it all, although I suspect ‘all’ wasn’t much.

It Was Like a Scene from “Eleanor Rigby”

I decided to hold a memorial service for Grandpa. My dad (a minister) agreed to help. I called around to the cousins and invited them to the service. They declined. Some were even rude about it.

Nevertheless, I proceeded.

Three or four ladies from Grandpa’s trailer park showed up. My best friend from church showed up. And that was it.

No cousins. No relatives of any kind. Not even Uncle Paul.

I gave the eulogy. It was pretty much the same message as this story. Except that I was in tears the whole time.

Grandpa had torn apart our family, repeatedly, because he couldn’t forgive.

He himself was condemned to a long life of loneliness, away from the love of family, away from the joy of grandchildren and great-grandchildren.

He alienated so many of us that there was almost no one left to mourn.

I Looked for a Positive Spin

After he died, in thinking about his life overall, I realized he most likely suffered from either bipolar disorder or narcissistic personality disorder. Not that this excused his behavior, but it somehow made me feel better about the choices he had made.

All the drama had happened long before such diagnoses were a thing. Now that we all know about these disorders, it puts his story in a different perspective. At least it does for me.

And he did manage to do one thing right…

He managed to leave us all with a life lesson:

No matter how difficult or embarrassing it is to forgive and reconnect, it is infinitely preferable to holding onto a grudge.

What I Learned: How to Respond to a Grudge

This wasn’t the only time a grudge reared it’s ugly head in my life. Here are some hard-learned tips on what to do when facing an unforgiving wall of silence:

Keep being nice—even if they aren’t.
Keep sending cards and letters—even if they get sent back.
Don’t get drawn into the middle of others’ squabbles.
Keep telling yourself: they just aren’t ready to be reconciled yet.
Remember grudge-holders often have other mental issues, so don’t take it personally.
If you’re a person of faith, pray for the situation, then turn it over to God—don’t keep banging your head against the wall.

Finally, follow Elsa’s advice and Let It Go.