She was more like my mum than my actual mum. My biological mum and I have always had our differences— I don’t understand home-making, and letting your identity be subsumed by your child. I never understood her Shanghainese brand of just letting me do whatever I wanted. There was no discipline, just a soft noodle-like consistency of care. When I needed her psychologically, there were moments when she lapsed. Grief is like an unseen, hard rock, where the ailment is on the inside rather than the outside. No one knows about it; it is hidden and secretive and shameful. I’m alone. I always felt like my paternal grandmother was my spiritual home, because she just got me. It was like we had known each other for many lifetimes, and she just knew what to say. I wanted to understand and be understood by her, the red thread that bound us was spiritual and there was a lineage there. I couldn’t say the same for my mother, because she was always so anxious to make my life a pattern for her own well-being. My grandma and I’s independence was so great that when I asked if I should move in with her, she said a definitive no, which hurt me and also gave me confidence. #daywhateverthefuckofgrief