The most love I ever felt was when my Grandad died.
Growing up I never had my parent's affection. I think they tried for so long to get pregnant that by the time I came around they were over it.
I didn't mind so much; I never knew anything different.
The thing that hurt the most, was watching the world continue to spin. Seeing my cousins at Christmas, attending people's birthday parties, watching a girl in the supermarket fall over... to see her mother pick her up.

I remember once crying at a friend's house because I had forgotten to bring the ketchup from the kitchen. That was when I learnt that small issues become big problems by small people.
Few friends visited my house. Sam stopped when he saw my father deliberately burn me. Becky stopped when he yelled at me with such force, that she started crying. A girl at school once proudly told the class "her parents don't love her", and they quickly learnt not to ask me what I was doing for my birthday.

I felt largely alone. But it was okay; I had resigned myself to this fact at a young age. My Nan, Grandad, Aunts and Uncles used to keep me at arms length. It was something I always felt, but was largely unsaid.
Then, my Grandad grew ill. Our relationship had always been strange, but that was typical for me. I loved him, that I knew. And although he wasn't particularly affectionate towards me, sometimes going as far as to be outright cold towards me - memories still existed. He had taught me how to swim. He taught me how to ride the bike the girl next door gave me, and although my parents sold it the same weekend, I still appreciated the effort.

I went to my Nan's house almost every day. He went from his chair, to a specialist chair the hospice bought it. That they turned into a bed in the living room, where he stayed.

There was one night when no-one was around. My Nan had gone to bed, and my Mum had popped out to get some food before returning to do the night shift. I sat there, and I had this now or never moment. I told him I loved him. I told him all the ways he had changed me, whether he knew it or not. I let him know all the happy memories I had because of him, and I thought, **** it, and  told him I was sorry if I had ever done something wrong, to make him not love me, or to think less of me. I never meant to change anything. And do you know, lying there in bed at 11pm at night, nearing the end, he began to cry.
Silent tears; calm tears; tears that accompanied his hand in mine.

The next day after work, I went back to my Nan's house. He had been talking about me. All day. He didn't speak to me when I went in. He grabbed my hand, pulled me close to him, and demanded I feel his words. He told me he loved me. He told me he had always loved me. He told me that he should've raised me, he should've taken me; stepped up and loved me. It was the last real conversation he had with anyone: my ear in his mouth.
He died two days later.

My Mum later told me that Grandad had told her she didn't love me, had never loved me, and that she should have loved me as much as he did. "You ruined her childhood." This recognition and flicker of love had ballooned up only to pop before it could be contained.

It's hard to know how to end this now, because there is no closure. Just statements: facts. He saw it all along and did nothing, and that hurt. But in those last moments, he chose me.
I once read that when warm air meets cold air, the different temperatures and densities can't mix together and so it causes adverse weather: lightning, snow, even tornadoes. That's what happened to me in that moment. A tornado started spinning inside of me, only it wasn't even touching the sides.