The Melancholy Baby

By Michael Kelman Portney

When I was a kid, my grandpa used to call me his “Melancholy Baby.” He’d say it with a grin, as if it were the greatest compliment in the world. “You had a head like a melon and a face like a collie,” he’d tease, and I’d laugh, even if I didn’t entirely understand the joke. It was his way of saying, I see you, and I love you for exactly who you are.

In those moments, I felt safe. Seen. My grandpa had a way of making the world feel like a kinder, more forgiving place. He didn’t sugarcoat reality—he told stories with grit and truth—but there was always love in the delivery. He had a gift for making people feel like they mattered, even when the world tried to convince them otherwise.

But now, in his absence, I find myself adrift. The laughter we shared feels like a faint echo, and I’m left grappling with a painful question: Was he the only person who ever really saw me?

Promises Made and Broken

Grandparents are often the keepers of dreams. They promise us the world—not just in words but in their unwavering belief in who we could be. My grandpa made promises, too. Promises that weren’t just about money or opportunity, but about legacy, about family, about trust.

And yet, after his death, those promises were squashed. Not by fate, but by greed. People who were supposed to carry his legacy forward chose instead to carve it up for themselves. The inheritance he intended to lift others became a battleground of selfishness, a monument to what happens when love gives way to power plays.

It’s not just the loss of opportunity that stings—it’s the betrayal. It’s the realization that the world he built, the one where I was his Melancholy Baby, wasn’t as safe or sturdy as it seemed.

The Loneliness of Being Seen

There’s a peculiar kind of loneliness that comes from being truly seen by someone who is no longer here. My grandpa’s absence feels like a missing piece of my identity, like a lighthouse that suddenly went dark. Without his voice, his teasing, his belief in me, I’m forced to confront a hard truth: the people left behind don’t see me the way he did.

And maybe they never did.

It’s a harsh reckoning, one that comes with a mix of sadness and anger. Sadness for the loss of connection, and anger at the forces that tore it apart. The greed, the manipulation, the way people will rewrite history to justify their own actions—it all feels like an insult to his memory.

Reckoning with Legacy

But here’s the thing about legacy: it’s not just about what’s passed down—it’s about what we choose to carry forward. My grandpa’s promises may have been stolen, but his love wasn’t. His belief in me wasn’t.

I still hear his voice, calling me his Melancholy Baby, reminding me that I don’t have to fit anyone else’s mold. I can laugh at the absurdity of life, even when it feels cruel. I can hold onto the parts of him that mattered, even as I navigate a world that doesn’t feel as kind without him.

Choosing to See Myself

Maybe the hardest part of this journey isn’t the betrayal or the loss—it’s learning to see myself the way he saw me. To believe that I’m enough, even when the people around me make me feel small. To trust that his love wasn’t just a fluke, but a reflection of something true and real.

The world may not see me as the Melancholy Baby. It may not understand the promises that were broken or the pain of watching a legacy unravel. But I see it. I feel it. And in his absence, I’m learning to carry the weight of that truth with grace.

My grandpa used to call me his Melancholy Baby, and maybe that’s exactly who I am. A little sad, a little strange, but full of a quiet strength that comes from being loved for exactly who I am.

And if that’s the only promise that survives, it’s enough.