Three Tiny Bibs

What is it like to share tragedies generation to generation - but perhaps in different styles and approaches?  Kristen Houghton shows us.

Elisa

Three Tiny Bibs

Kristen Houghton

I had a loving relationship with my grandmother. She was always there; she rarely left her house—a sweet Italian lady who was happy to see me whenever I stopped by. I loved that she called me Bella, the Italian word for beautiful. There was always food cooking at her house; it smelled of lemon, basil, and fresh herbs. She made the best chicken soup I have ever tasted. Her Thanksgiving stuffing was out-of-this-world delicious. Her lemonade, made with fresh lemons, is a big part of my happy summer memories.

But as much as I loved visiting her, I sensed a certain reserve that kept affection at arm’s length. I was twelve years old when I asked my mother why Nana never really smiled. My mother hinted that Nana had endured “family hardships” but gave no specifics, no context for my grandmother’s sadness.

As a teen, I attributed it to her generation, one that didn’t openly show displays of affection. I would kiss her hello and goodbye, but as far as saying “I love you,” she only said it in response to me. I was the one who always initiated it.

“I love you, Nana.”

“I love you, too, Bella.”

Still, I knew that my grandmother loved me. Her seeming lack of affection was just part of who she was, the same as the neatly coiled bun and old-fashioned bib aprons she wore. It was just Nana.

I’d been married for two years when I became pregnant. Three months into the pregnancy, I miscarried. My emotions ran the gamut from sad to angry to hopeful for another pregnancy and back to sad again. The sadness always won. It was now a part of my life, and I didn’t know how to help myself. Sadness followed me, my constant companion.

One day, I was sitting in my garden when I heard someone knocking on the gate. I was surprised to see Nana on the other side, holding a small package in one hand and a tall bottle of lemonade in the other.

“I want to sit in your garden, Bella, and drink lemonade with you. I want to talk to you,” she said.

We settled into deck chairs in the shade to drink lemonade. My grandmother handed me the small package and told me to open it. Inside were three tiny baby bibs embroidered with the names Jimmy, Rudy, and Eda.

I looked at Nana in confusion.

She touched my hand. “Those are the names of my children, the ones who died,” she said.

I shook my head. Died? Nana had children other than my mother?

“I kept the bibs in a closet for more than fifty years just to keep their memories in my heart. But today, I bring them to you so you can know I understand your hurt.”

As we sipped lemonade, she told me about her first three children. Generoso “Jimmy” was born in Italy when Nana was twenty. He died during a flu epidemic that swept Europe, and she felt as if her heart would never heal. Her second son, Rudy, died a “crib death” in New York City a few years after she immigrated to the United States with my grandfather. Her first daughter, Eda, a sweet little girl who had an unknown heart ailment, died a few months before her third birthday.

I was stunned. “I didn’t know, Nana. I’m so sorry. Why didn’t I know?”

Nana told me her tragedies weren’t something you talked about, especially to children. She kept the pain inside.

She also told me when she found out she was pregnant with my mother, she was upset. She didn’t want another baby because she couldn’t go through another loss. But my mother thrived and was a healthy baby. She was a good child who became a wonderful woman. Nana thanked God for my mother.

We talked and cried together, and I came to know more about my grandmother in the late hours of a warm afternoon than I had ever known before. That she had kept her sadness to herself so as not to burden anyone else was heart-touching; so was the fact that she came to be with me, to help me with my own sorrow, which, though painful and sad, was nowhere near what she had endured.

That afternoon, our hearts connected in a way only two women’s hearts ever can. I saw Nana as a beautiful light, one of bravery shining through grief in the form of three tiny bibs.

Karen Houghton wrote "Three Tiny Bibs" as a part of a collection of stories compiled by Lesle Means.

Adapted from So God Made a Grandma: Caring, Faithful, Creative, Devoted, Wise, Generous, Resilient—Just like You by Leslie Means, March 2025. Tyndale Momentum.

Kristen Houghton is a WNYC bestselling author who writes the popular series A Cate Harlow Private Investigation. This story comes from a collection of stories compiled by Leslie Means, founder of the popular website Her View from Home.