Grandma Killed the Whole Family

Thanksgiving rolled around, and as always, my parents and I piled into the car to head back to Grandma's house. When we got there, I spotted her in the kitchen, busy making meat pies with flour that was clearly past its prime—greenish, fuzzy, and far from edible.

I tried to warn her. "Grandma, you really shouldn't use that flour. It's moldy. You could get seriously sick."

The second the words left my mouth, Grandma dropped to the floor, screaming like I'd just slapped her or something.

My dad, the ever-dutiful son, didn't miss a beat. He grabbed the broom and swung it at me, not caring if it hurt.

Mom, losing it completely, grabbed chunks of the meat pie and started shoving them down my throat, forcing me to swallow.

Grandma stood off to the side, clutching my baby brother and glaring at me with cold eyes. "Disrespect your elders, and this is what you get."

I begged them to stop, but the more I pleaded, the harder they hit, and the more forceful they became. I was powerless.

In the end, I choked on that meat pie, the mold, and the sheer bitterness of it all.

Then, suddenly, I was back. Back to Thanksgiving morning, standing in Grandma's kitchen, watching her make those same pies with that same moldy flour. This time, I knew better. I kept my mouth shut.

***

Dad was all about honoring family tradition, so every holiday, without fail, we'd head back to Grandma's, no matter how exhausting the trip was.

Mom held my little brother in her lap in our old, rattling minivan. She looked back at me perched on a tiny fold-out stool, eyes already scanning the horizon like she was bracing for impact. "Angela, when we get there, be helpful. Don't just sit there staring at the food like we never feed you at home."

When we pulled up, Grandma was all smiles, fussing over my parents and my brother, ushering them inside, offering fruit and a place to sit. But when she saw me, trailing behind, the smile faded. "Angela, get in here and help me with the pies."

The second I stepped into the kitchen and saw that familiar gray-green flour and the bowl of old, stale nuts, it hit me. I was back in the nightmare.

I didn't hesitate. I poured the moldy flour into a big bowl, stirring it over and over until it didn't look so bad. The greenish tint was mostly gone, and it almost looked usable. I washed the pie molds, set them to dry, and moved as fast as I could, trying to keep up.

Just when I thought I'd catch a break, Grandma yanked my ear. "You take your eyes off the work for a second, and you're already slacking. No man's ever gonna want you like this. Get chopping!"

I glanced at the two pieces of meat on the cutting board, my stomach turning. One was blackened, ancient, and covered in wriggling maggots; the other, a foul-smelling chunk of pork, was far past its expiration date.

I swallowed hard, trying not to gag. Grandma caught me staring and assumed the worst. "Don't even think about it. This meat's for your dad and brother, not for you."

"Don't worry, Grandma. I'm good," I said, forcing a smile, though inside, I was seething. I couldn't help but think, Go ahead, eat up. Maybe then you'll all be gone sooner.

Grandma's favoritism and stinginess were nothing new. She always kept the good stuff for the men in the family, even if it was long past being good. The flour and nuts Aunt Olivia sent her last year were still being used, no matter how moldy or stale.

Hours passed, and finally, the meat pies were done. They actually smelled decent, but I knew better than to even think about eating one.

At dinner, Grandma made sure to pile them high on Dad's and my brother's plates. "Eat up, Ethan. Have some more, Alexander."

I put on my best hungry face, staring at the pies. "Grandma, can I have some too?"

Grandma pointed to a sad pile of potatoes sitting on the side. "Here's your food. You're a girl, Angela. Meat's not for you. So don't get any ideas."

When my eight-year-old brother waved his meat pie in my face, he smirked. "You're just a worthless girl. You don't get to have any."

I snapped. I slapped the pie right out of his hand.

He stood there stunned for a moment, not expecting me to fight back, especially in front of Mom and Dad. But then he started bawling.

Mom rushed over and scooped him up, rocking him like he was still a baby. "Don't cry, sweetie. If she ever hits you again, we'll just marry her off to that lame guy from the village."

Grandma stormed over, twisting my ear hard. "How dare you hit your brother! Getting real bold, aren't you?"

Mom was still trying to calm my brother down, but Dad had had enough. "Angela, you little brat. It's Thanksgiving, and you just have to ruin it for everyone. Get lost in the kitchen—I can't stand to look at you."

I didn't say a word. I grabbed the potatoes and headed for the kitchen.