According to herself, my grandma used to be thin and happy. I never believed her as she was always fat, bitter and made everyone around her miserable. I never saw her eat, so she must have been fat because of all the hatred and guilt she kept inside. She used to secretly feed my grandfather valium with his breakfast in order to “keep him quiet.” We were forced to spend holidays with her but hated every minute, her voice and look heinous enough to spoil every chance of happiness — the best china and best behaviour never good enough to generate a smile. Occasionally, between the waves of fear and resentment, I would feel so sorry for her, tried to understand her and make her happy. But to no avail. She was a valuable lesson in how not to be. RIP.