The wolf is dead; words for my paternal grandmother
When I say 'was raised by wolves', I count this woman as one of them. Her name is Maria, and she is my paternal grandmother. Her family was from Paros island, if I am not mistaken, and she met my grandfather, a refugee from Asia Minor, and spent the rest of their lives together. They were a beautiful couple. I was more connected to him, than to her; he held me in his arms and told me stories whil e we ate watermelon from his garden, while she would tell me that there are children-vore monsters right outside their house so that I stay put. As I transitioned from girlhood to womanhood, she became more and more threatening: in her eyes, I was too fat, too clumsy, too opinionated, too not-ladylike--everything was wrong, and, worst thing of all, she said I kind of looked like her, but there I was, wasting the good genes by not sewing my lips shut. 'Look at my waistline in this photo... Better than yours, and I even had had three childbirths at this point!'. Terrible really...