The Relatives You Think You Know!

You grow up thinking you know your family. After all, you have spent years around them. You know their habits, their favourite sayings, and their place within the family hierarchy.

But sometimes there are the quiet ones.

The sweet ones.

The God-fearing ones.

The charitable ones with the gentle, sincere voices who seem incapable of causing trouble. The sort of people you would swear would not say boo to a goose.

Then you get older.

And they start oversharing.

Or perhaps you just start paying attention.

I remember visiting my other half’s grandma one afternoon. His aunt was there helping to look after her. She was in the kitchen doing what good daughters do: making tea, pouring coffee, arranging biscuits on plates, and generally making sure everyone was looked after.

Our son wandered into the kitchen looking for something in the fridge. A few moments later, he emerged looking rather amused.

Apparently, nestled discreetly among the milk and butter was a bottle of vodka.

The aunt quickly explained that Grandma did not know about it and encouraged him to keep it that way.

That was probably the beginning of me realising that perhaps she was not quite as saintly as I had first assumed.

Over the years I have heard plenty of stories from her time living overseas. Tales involving cheeky barbecues, passport control incidents, and somehow talking her way out of minor traffic offences with the police. Every story seemed to reveal another layer of a woman who was far more mischievous than she appeared.

But there is one story that remains firmly lodged in my brain.

A story that sits squarely in the category of oversharing.

A story that, once heard, can never be unheard.

She was staying with Grandma one day while the carers were helping her get washed and dressed in the bathroom. The carers were on a schedule and did not have much time, so Aunt did not want to interrupt them.

Meanwhile, she was in the kitchen preparing breakfast.

And suddenly she was desperate for the loo.

She looked towards the bathroom.

Occupied.

She shuffled from foot to foot.

Still occupied.

Then she looked down.

And there, sitting innocently nearby, was the cat’s litter tray.

Need I say more?

A short while later, Grandma emerged from the bathroom in her wheelchair, pushed by the carers.

Unfortunately, a certain smell was impossible to ignore.

Without missing a beat, Aunt blamed the cat.

The carers eventually left.

The truth, however, did not leave with them.

At some point she confessed the entire episode to Grandma.

And then, for reasons known only to herself, she eventually shared it with me too.

Some stories really do not need to be told.

This was one of them.

Because once you have heard that your seemingly sweet, respectable aunt once used a cat litter tray as an emergency toilet, there is no deleting that image from your mind.

Ever.

Some family secrets are better left buried.

Preferably deeper than cat litter. 😄