Left Behind but Never Alone: How My Grandmother Has Been Like a Parent to Me for 26 Years
They’re there, but not really
It wouldn’t be fair to say I don’t have a family. My parents are alive; they just live their own lives, far away from me. They’re likely happy, building careers, traveling, maybe even in love with each other. Perhaps they deceive one another, or perhaps they stay together out of habit. I don’t know.
The one constant I do know is that it’s always been my grandmother by my side.
Everyone knows her as Mary Smith, but to me, she’s simply Grandma Mary.
She took me in when I was just six months old. Once my mom stopped breastfeeding, Grandma became the one who cared for 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 family; she’s my friend, my advisor, my one true person. We’ve spent countless late nights in the kitchen, silently smoking, discussing everything or nothing, and sometimes pouring a drink when my heart aches.
Grandma is the one thing I’m grateful for in life.
She taught me everything
Grandma Mary wasn’t lenient but not overly strict, either. She understood that I needed to learn how to live independently.
She taught me how to sew buttons, mend socks, and hem jeans. I can make soups, bake pies, fry potatoes, and even cook meals on a gas stove when the power is out.
She taught me not to whine. If it’s cold, you dress warmly. If you’re short on cash, you find a way. If someone leaves your life, it’s because they weren’t meant to stay.
Above all, she instilled in me a love for books.
Every occasion—be it my birthday, Christmas, or just a random good day—came with the gift of a book. Over the years, I’ve amassed a full bookshelf, and even though everyone reads e-books now, I still cherish the smell of paper. It’s the scent of a real, vibrant world.
Grandma taught me what a home should smell like.
A true home smells like freshly baked bread, milk, and cinnamon.
A true home is where someone is waiting for you.
While my friends came home from school to empty houses, eating leftovers from the fridge and doing homework alone, I would return to a warm home, with hot stew on the stove and Grandma waiting by the window.
For that, I am thankful.
My dream
I’ve always had just one dream: to open a small bookshop.
I can picture every detail: wooden shelves, cozy chairs, the aroma of coffee and fresh pastries. People will come in, sit down, flick through books, and enjoy tea or cocoa.
I’ll set up a few tables and prepare the most delicious pies using Grandma’s recipes for my guests.
I am confident I’ll succeed.
Because Grandma always told me, “The key is to do it with heart.”
She’s happy I graduated from university and found a good job. I teach; I share knowledge with children, although my heart is set on something else.
Grandma dreams of seeing me married with kids. She looks forward to looking after great-grandchildren, as she once did me.
But first, my dream must come first.
I haven’t told Grandma, but I recently learned that my father sold the family land, took his share, and didn’t give me a cent.
However, his brother—my uncle, a man who is exceptionally skilled—has promised to help. He wants to invest in my bookshop, assist with renovations, and provide 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 that whenever she visits my bookshop, she can proudly say, “That’s my grandson’s creation.”
