When I was a kid, my grandmother Laurette and my grandfather Yvon lived in the apartment above ours. Every day I came home from school and went right upstairs to play cards with him as she made me a grilled cheese sandwich. Although the whole family is made up of rather direct, no-nonsense people, my grandmother was by far the most direct person I’ve ever met.

She wasn’t a sentimental woman either. When I got hurt she didn’t take me in her arms; she would swiftly disinfect the wound and put a band-aid on it, later admonishing my father for moving into a place with stairs. At Bingo, when she got close to winning but lost, she’d never fail to colorfully rip into the person who had won, even if the winner was our priest. Still, because she wanted to be polite, she’d say “Allez donc pisser, vous”. When my cousin, aged only 4, loudly complained on a bus that the lady sitting next to her didn’t smell good, and my aunt tried unsuccessfully to keep her quiet, Laurette said “Ben c’est vrai qu’à pue!”

Yet for all her down-to-earth realism, every Christmas she built a virtual Disneyland in her living room for me and my cousin, filling us with wonder like a pragmatic fairy. When I last saw her in the hospital over the holidays, she didn’t recognize me but kept talking about Andy’s daughter’s recent achievements. She told me about my new job. My new house.

Laurette would have been 93 on Sunday, but she passed away last weekend, after a few months of illness.

Since then, I’ve received a lot of messages from surprising places, and I’ve learned that Laurette was neighborhood grandmother to many who weren’t related to her. Although I never heard her spontaneously tell anyone that she loved them, this week I’m happy to know that many hearts were touched by her uncompromising tough love.

Bye Mémé, tu vas me manquer.