One day. When I was as little as six years old. My great-grandmother sat alone at our dinner table, fidgeting with her hands as her eyes clouded with guilt and pain.
"What's wrong?" I asked as my soft voice rained curiosity. She looked at me with tired, sullen eyes.
"I did something that made your mommy very upset with me. And I'm worried she will never forgive me."
"Did you say you were sorry?" I held my grandmothers hand, she gave a weak smile as she clasped my little hands in hers.
"No, but it's a little more complicated than that sweetie." At the time, I was confused what she meant by those words.