You took my grandmother away. No, that's wrong. She wasn't a grandmother; she was never able to be, thanks to you.

You made a ten year old boy wonder why there was a prosthesis in his mother's bra. She was in remission for a while, but then you came back, you fucking bastard. She got sicker and sicker until she finally died at 43. 43 years old, a wife, a daughter, a sister, and a mother of three boys. My father was 22, and his brothers were younger.

You took away my chance to even meet her, to know her at all. Sure, I have stories, pictures, and videos. I had even dreamt about her when I was a kid. But it isn't the same, and it isn't enough. I hear that she was wonderful, that she was strong and graceful and lovely. But I guess I will never know. I mourn for her, I mourn for her sisters, my father, and my uncle. I mourn for the memories I could have had of her that were stolen from me.

But you, well, when you are finally dead and gone I will be filled with joy, and I will dance on your grave.