My name is Gloria. I’m 74, widowed for more than 20 years. I never expected to tell this story about my own grandson. I raised Todd from age 12 after his mother died at childbirth and his father vanished into casinos and cheap motels.
I worked nights at a laundromat and cleaned offices on weekends so Todd would have food, school clothes, and a warm bed waiting. To me, he was my second chance at family — my everything.
When Todd’s behavior turned rough at school — fights, thefts — a judge asked if I’d raise him properly. I said yes. I moved him into my late husband’s house. I cooked dinners, checked homework, sat up for curfew, went to every meeting and game, even when he sat on the bench. I believed love and care could fill the holes addiction and grief had left.
But between his 18th birthday and mine, he drifted away. He moved from friends to girlfriends to strangers. Visits became rare. Text messages replaced real time. When he came, I’d have tea ready, cookies, a gift — socks I knitted, a scarf, a sweater — but he always left before I could ask anything. The house felt too big without him.
Then one day he appeared at my door. Beside him, a woman in a car. He said Natasha needed an operation and he had no money. He asked me for help. My heart remembered hospital lights, death, loss. I sold the house and gave them everything — hope for family again.
But nothing came of the surgery. Instead, new clothes for Natasha, a new TV — no hospital papers, no prescriptions. She sneered that I was a burden. Todd laughed. They had not come for me, but for freedom from me. Soon after, they moved me into a nursing home.
Years passed. Then I inherited money from a distant cousin. Not surprisingly, Todd re-emerged, eyes hungry, asking for “his share” early — again claiming Natasha needed surgery. I refused. I rewrote my will: the money goes to the home unless he works there full-time for a year, caring for residents.
He sneered. Called it twisted. Then, reluctantly, returned two days later. He began working. I watched him change sheets, feed and listen — sometimes laughing with residents, sometimes offering help. By the end of the year, I saw a different man beside my bed. When the final papers came, he said, “I want to do this right, Grandma.” For once, I believed him — and so did he.