Abandoned, But Not Alone: How My Grandma Has Filled the Role of My Parents for 26 Years
Parents You Have, but Don’t
It wouldn’t be fair to say I don’t have family. My parents are alive, living their own lives somewhere far away. They’re probably happy, building their careers, traveling, maybe even in love with each other. Maybe they’re cheating or just tolerating each other out of habit. I really don’t know.
The one thing I do know is that since I can remember, my grandma has been the only one by my side.
Everyone calls her Mary Johnson, but to me, she’s simply Grandma Mary.
She took me in when I was just six months old. My mom stopped breastfeeding me, and since then, it’s been just Grandma taking care of me. I’m 26 now, and she’s still right here.
To say I love her doesn’t quite capture it. She’s not just my family, she’s my friend, my advisor, my one true confidant. We can sit together in the kitchen late into the night, silently smoking, talking about everything or nothing, and sometimes just pouring out our hearts over a glass of whiskey.
Grandma is the one thing I’m grateful to fate for.
She Has Taught Me Everything
Grandma Mary never spoiled me, but she wasn’t strict either. She understood that I needed to learn to live on my own.
She taught me how to sew buttons, darn socks, and hem jeans. I know how to make soups, bake pies, fry potatoes, and even cook meals on the gas stove when the power goes out.
She taught me not to whine. If it’s cold, well, it’s time to layer up. If money is short, you find a solution. If someone leaves your life, it means they weren’t meant to stay.
But most importantly, she taught me to love books.
Every celebration—be it my birthday, Christmas, or just a good day—she gifted me a book. Over time, I amassed a whole bookcase full, and though these days everyone reads on tablets, I still love the scent of paper. It smells like the real, living world.
Grandma taught me what a home should smell like.
A real home smells of freshly baked bread, milk, and cinnamon.
A real home is where someone’s waiting for you.
My friends came home from school to empty houses, eating cold leftovers and doing homework alone. I came home to warmth, with a hot stew on the stove and Grandma waiting by the window.
I’m grateful for that.
My Dream
I’ve always dreamed of one thing—to open a small bookshop.
I envision every detail: wooden shelves, cozy armchairs, the aroma of coffee and fresh pastries. People would come in, sit down, browse through books, sipping tea or hot chocolate.
I’d set up a few tables and bake the tastiest pies using Grandma’s recipes for my guests.
I know I can make it happen.
Because Grandma always told me, “The key is to do everything with your heart.”
She’s happy I graduated from university and found a good job. I’m a teacher—I educate kids, sharing knowledge, though my own dream lies elsewhere.
Grandma dreams of seeing me married with children. She wants to look after my kids like she once did with me.
But first—my dream.
I haven’t told Grandma yet, but I recently found out my dad sold off family land, kept his share, and didn’t give me a dime.
However, his brother—my uncle, a man with a heart of gold—promised to help. He wants to invest in my bookstore, assist with renovations and furniture.
Grandma has always treated him like her own son. Maybe that’s why he agreed to help me.
I want to make her happy.
I want her to be proud of me.
So she can walk into my bookshop and say, “My grandson made this.”
