**Diary Entry – 15th May**
Lydia Whitmore stood by her kitchen window, watching her grandson, Oliver, hurl stones at the neighbour’s cat. The boy was only seven, but there was a sharpness in his movements that unsettled her.
“Oliver! Stop that this instant!” she called, pushing open the sash window.
He didn’t even glance up. Instead, he picked up a larger rock and flung it again. The cat yowled and darted behind the garages.
Lydia sighed and fetched her coat. She knew she’d have to go down and speak with him, though it rarely did any good. Oliver never listened—always snapping back or running off to his mother, Charlotte, to complain.
In the stairwell, she bumped into Mrs. Thompson from next door.
“Lydia, have you seen your grandson?” the woman huffed. “He’s tormenting poor Whiskers again!”
“I saw. I’ll talk to him.”
“Talk? What good will that do? You ought to speak with Charlotte. It’s her lack of discipline—no offence.”
Lydia bit her tongue. Disagreeing would only drag out the conversation, but neither would she let her daughter be maligned.
Outside, Oliver had moved on—plucking wings off flies trapped in a jar.
“Oliver, what are you doing?” Lydia lowered herself onto the bench beside him.
“Experimenting,” he muttered without looking up.
“Experimenting how?”
“Seeing how they’ll manage without wings.”
Lydia gently took the jar from his hands. “Flies are living creatures, love. It hurts them.”
“So? They’re pests.”
“Harming others isn’t right, even if you don’t like them.”
Oliver frowned as if she’d spoken in riddles.
“Mum says if someone’s weaker, you don’t have to be scared of them.”
Her chest tightened. Could Charlotte truly be teaching him that?
“Your mother’s mistaken. The strong should protect the weak, not hurt them.”
“That’s rubbish,” he scoffed, darting off toward the swings.
When Charlotte arrived that evening—exhausted and irritable—Lydia steeled herself.
“Did you feed him at least?” Charlotte asked, bypassing a greeting.
“Of course. Charlotte, we need to talk.”
“About what?” She fiddled with her handbag strap.
“Oliver’s behaviour. He’s cruel to animals, disrespectful—”
Charlotte rolled her eyes. “He’s seven, Mum. All boys roughhouse.”
“This isn’t roughhousing. He’s learning cruelty.”
“And what do you suggest? Lock him indoors?”
“I suggest teaching him kindness. Right from wrong.”
Charlotte scoffed. “Times have changed. The world’s harsh—if he’s soft, he’ll be trampled.”
“There’s a difference between strength and brutality!”
“Does it matter? Survival does.”
Lydia barely recognised her own daughter. Where was the kind girl she’d raised?
“Oliver, we’re leaving!” Charlotte called.
He trudged over. “Gran, can I come tomorrow?”
“Any time, love.”
At the gate, Charlotte turned back. “Don’t fill his head with fairy tales about kindness. Life isn’t fair.”
Long after they’d gone, Lydia sat on the bench, wondering where she’d failed.
The next day, Oliver arrived with a scratch on his cheek.
“What happened?” Lydia asked.
“Thomas scratched me. For no reason.”
She knew Thomas from down the lane—a quiet boy. “What really happened?”
Oliver scuffed his shoe. “Took his sweets.”
“Took or stole?”
“He wouldn’t share! But Mum says the strong take what they want.”
“Mum’s wrong.”
Oliver blinked. “Grown-ups don’t get things wrong.”
“They do. But your conscience knows better—that little voice telling you what’s right.”
He chewed his lip. “It said stealing was bad. But Mum called that silly.”
“Is it silly?”
“Dunno,” he admitted.
Lydia told him a tale of a gentle giant who defended the weak. Oliver listened—really listened.
Later, she spotted Thomas hiding behind his mother.
“Oliver,” she whispered, “perhaps apologise?”
He hesitated, then mumbled, “Sorry I took your sweets.”
Thomas peeked out. “S’alright.”
“Wanna play?”
The boys raced off.
That evening, Charlotte stormed in. “What nonsense have you been teaching him? Mrs. Wilkins phoned—said Oliver *apologised*?”
“For stealing!”
“Boys squabble! You’re making him weak!”
“I’m teaching him decency.”
Charlotte laughed bitterly. “Decency’s a luxury we can’t afford.”
Lydia studied her—the weariness, the hardness. “Who hurt you, love?”
Charlotte turned away. “Life did. Kindness gets you nowhere.”
“Then why did Thomas forgive Oliver so easily? Kindness *matters*.”
For the first time, Charlotte wavered.
Later, Oliver piped up, “Mum, can I give Thomas my toy lorry tomorrow? He likes it.”
Charlotte’s face softened. “What if he still won’t play with you?”
“Then I’ll find a nicer friend.”
Lydia smiled. Perhaps not all was lost.
Charlotte hugged him. “Let’s try it your gran’s way. Strong *and* kind. Deal?”
“Deal.”
As they left, Charlotte whispered, “I’m sorry, Mum. You were right.”
That night, Lydia knitted by the window, watching Oliver and Thomas build sandcastles together. Charlotte smiled from the bench.
**Lesson learnt:** Discipline isn’t just rules—it’s the example we set. One act of kindness can rewrite a child’s future. And sometimes, the hardest hearts soften when shown a better way.
