For years, the scent of lavender was a trigger, not a comfort.
**For years, the scent of lavender was a trigger, not a comfort.**
My grandmother always smelled of lavender. Not the fresh, green kind from the garden, but the cloying, over-processed scent of sachets tucked into every drawer, every closet, even under the sofa cushions. It was her signature, her invisible cloak, and to me, it was a suffocating shroud.
She was a woman of firm opinions and an even firmer grip on expectations. From the moment I could hold a crayon, my artistic leanings were met with a polite, but unmistakable, disappointment. „That's nice, dear,” she'd say, her gaze already drifting to my cousin’s perfect penmanship.
I remember one summer afternoon, the sun bleaching the chintz curtains in her living room. I was eleven, painstakingly drawing a fantastical creature, all scales and wings, completely absorbed in the world I was creating.
She walked in, humming, a basket of mending clutched in her arm. That familiar lavender scent preceded her, then enveloped me.
She peered over my shoulder, her fingers, gnarled with age, hovering near my drawing. "What is that monstrosity?" she asked, her voice light, but the word landed like a stone in my chest.
I tried to explain, to share the intricate vision in my head, but the words caught in my throat. She just chuckled, a dry sound like rustling autumn leaves. "You spend too much time in your head, Amelia. Come, help me with these socks. Practicality is a virtue."
I folded socks, the rough cotton scratching my skin, while the image of my winged beast, my precious monstrosity, faded under the weight of her indifference. The anger was a slow burn, a quiet ember that never quite went out. It simmered, year after year, every time art was dismissed, every time practicality was lauded above imagination. It was a secret, bitter companion.
---
Last month, sorting through her belongings after her passing, I found a small, unmarked box in her cedar chest. Inside, nestled amongst dried roses, was a faded drawing. My fantastical creature. That very one.
Flipping it over, I saw her neat, cursive script on the back: “Amelia’s dragon. So much imagination.” The words were faint, smudged, as if she had hesitated, then written them anyway.
The anger didn't vanish instantly, but it shifted, softened. It was a jolt, seeing that she had kept it, that she had seen something, even if she couldn't express it in a way I understood then. It didn't excuse the sting of her words, but it complicated the narrative I’d held so tightly.
I learned that sometimes, the resentment we carry is less about what was explicitly said, and more about what we believed it meant, what we interpreted as a lack of love or approval. She was a product of her time, her own unspoken pains. I wish I could have said, even once, "My art matters, Grandma, even if it's not practical."
Tonight, write it down and burn it.
This story is part of the K-Will Stories archive — an anonymised, content-warned, candle-react grief-and-resilience collection. Reading: 7 min · Theme: confession-resentment · Mood: bittersweet.
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