I wish they hadn't spent 32 years claiming they loved me when all the while they loved their bigotry much more than they ever loved me. I don't like pretenses. But I'm glad this one is over with. You only find out who truly cares about you when you're under attack and need to turn to your loved ones for your support. In my 32 years, I'd never really needed to call on my grandparents for anything at all until this fall, when the streets of my neighborhood suddenly filled with hundreds of people waving signs campaigning to call off my wedding. During this election cycle, I've absolutely needed all the support I could find to keep me going while surrounded by so much hate. Many friends and all the rest of my family members have come through to support me and have made the entire horror more survivable than it otherwise would have been. But my grandparents? Forty years after they're dead, if they get their way, I'll have a lack of marriage license to remember them by. That's quite a way to ensure, at the very end of their lives, that I can't possibly be able to remember them fondly, ever.
They couldn't even be bothered to actually answer an honest "Yes" when I asked them repeatedly, via email and then snail mail and then telephone, whether they were planning to vote to call off my wedding. Instead they just never replied at all until I phoned them, and even then they ignored the question and talked right past it. The fact that they couldn't bring themselves to actually tell me reveals that on some deep down level, even they know that what they're doing is so shameful that they can't quite admit to themselves that they're doing it.