Don’t Think Less of Me

Author Harlan CovingtonReading 7 minViews 2

Sophie is buzzing for the NewYear break; shes booked a trip to Glenshee in the Scottish Highlands, hoping to pick up downhill skiing. Her daughter Alice is in her third year at university in London, studying on a fullyfunded place and even receiving a scholarship. Sophie chats with her colleagues:

Good on you, Aliceno tuition fees and a stipend. I can actually afford a holiday and some travel.

Exactly, Sophie. Your daughters a star, unlike my little rascal, who just drifts around university and leaves the bills to his dad, her friend and workmate Nicky jokes.

Sophie heads the marketing department of a large firm and earns a decent salary. She owns a flat in Manchester and a car. She divorced her husband Mark twelve years ago; he moved back to his parents home in the north and never contacts his daughter. Sophie never chased himshe raised Alice on her own, and Alice now studies in London and will probably stay there after graduation.

Sophie is slim, attractive, with chestnut hair cut into a bob and serious brown eyes. Shes kind and courteous. After the divorce she dates, but none of the men spark a marriageready flame yet.

She prepares meticulously for the twoweek ski getaway shes been dreaming about since last summer.

Oh, Nicky, Ive splurged on this winter ski suit it costs a fortune, but I deserve a treat, Sophie laughs. Im finally learning to ski. You and your husband go out on the slopes all the time, while Ive never even tried. If only we had a ski centre closer to home.

Before NewYears Eve the office throws a party, everyone has a laugh and then scatters for the holidays.

Enjoy every minute, Sophie, Nicky says. My husband and I are heading to his familys cottage for the break, so Ill see you after weve all rested. Youll be back a bit later, right?

Thanks, Nicky. Ill try to unwindIm used to summer vacations, but a winter break sounds perfect.

Sophie jets off to Glenshee. After the holidays the office reconvenes, everyone looking refreshed, some even wishing the break had lasted longer.

Hey, Sophie, Nicky greets her. Your eyes are shining, you look like youve got wings. Must have had a brilliant break.

You have no ideathis is the best holiday Ive ever had! Glenshee, the slopes at Cairngorm, the village of Aviemore Im on cloud nine, Sophie gushes.

And you managed to ski?

Absolutely! I even tasted a few glasses of red wine, tried the local Scottish fare, and met Arthur, the snowboarding instructor.

Ah, thats the ticket, Nicky chuckles. Whos he?

The main reason Im glowing is Arthur. I fell headoverheels for him.

Congratulations, Sophiefinally something serious in your life.

Thanks, love. Arthurs charm swept me away. Hes so gentle, its like hes blowing the dust off my shoulders. Im not complaining.

Are you both serious, or? You flew out, left him therehow will this work? Youre here, hes there.

Sophies mind has already run through that scenario, but Arthur assures her not to worry.

Our love sparked at first sight, like something out of a film. He drove me around town, took me on tours, we dined in the fanciest restaurants. One evening, high up on a mountain restaurant with a breathtaking view, he confessed his love.

Pure romance, Nicky says.

Arthur told me hed been waiting for a woman like me for ages. He teaches countless women to ski and snowboard, but between us a genuine feeling ignites. Its mutual.

Great, Sophie. Im thrilled for you. Whats next?

We talked it through. I dont want to move to Glenshee permanentlyI have a great job here, and works tough up there. Arthur feels the same; his roots are there, too. We plan a future together, and he finally agrees to relocate to Manchester for me.

Fantastic! Well done, Arthur, Nicky replies.

When its time for Sophie to head home, Arthur promises a quick reunion, and she says goodbye at the airport with tears.

Sophie, I still have two months left on my contract, then Ill be with you, Arthur vows, and they part.

They text lovingly every day, sending each other sweet notes. Sophie keeps Nicky updated, thanking fate and counting the days until Arthur arrives.

Meanwhile Arthurs contract is ending; he should be able to buy a ticket within two weeks.

Then a worrying message pops up.

Sophie, I slipped during training and broke my leg in two places. Doctors say I need urgent surgery.

She calls him straight away.

Love, Im flying over right now, taking unpaid leave.

No need, he replies. Im in hospital. Could you lend me three hundred pounds for the operation? I love you, Sophie, but Im stuck.

Alright, Arthur, Ill send the money so you can get the operation, she says, without hesitation.

Nicky, however, raises an eyebrow.

Sophie, thats a lot of money to send to someone youve never met in person. Maybe verify the doctors number first.

Sophie shoots Nicky a look that makes her uneasy.

They keep talking on the phone while Sophie waits, counting postop days and rehab, then the day Arthur should fly in.

Thanks for the help, Sophie. Ill repay you as soon as Im back. Just wait for me, Arthur says, and she feels her heart lift as if shes soaring.

She replies, Ill wait, love. Dont worry about the moneyyour health matters most. I love you and cant wait to see you on your feet again.

Soon Arthur messages that he needs another thirty pounds to book his flight, promising to return everything and more once hes there. Sophie reads the note, sighs, and Nicky notices.

Whats up now, Sophie?

Sophie shows her the long, plaintive text: It feels like my life is a series of dark stripes. Only your love and the thought of meeting give me hope. Dont think badly of me, followed by a request for cash.

Nicky feels uneasy, reads it again.

Sophie, this sounds like a scam. He keeps asking for money. You should think twice.

I know, Nicky, but Arthurs just having a rough patch. He needs help, and Im his girl. Who else would I help? Youre being overly suspicious, Sophie defends.

Nicky presses, Im looking out for you. Youre not that rich to keep sending cash to a stranger. He might be a con artist; you could be his latest victim.

Sophie hesitates, wondering if Nickys right. Then her exhusband Mark, whos been around, chimes in from the phone.

Sophie, dont trust him. Tell him you cant send the money. Why would you keep feeding a whiner who always needs cash?

Sophie calls Arthur.

Im sorry, Arthur, but I cant send any more money; Im broke myself. Youll have to sort it out, she says.

What a stingy woman, he snaps, ending the call abruptly.

Nicky sighs, See? Thats proof. Dont be upset; these guys arent worth a penny. Real men will come along.

“I Just Want to Live for Myself and Finally Get Some Sleep,” Said My Husband as He Walked Out Three months—that’s how long the madness lasted. Three months of sleepless nights, with baby Max screaming so loudly the neighbours banged on the wall. Three months of Marina shuffling around like a zombie, eyes red and hands shaking. Meanwhile, Igor stomped about the house, grumpy as a raincloud. “Can you believe I look like a tramp at work?” he snapped one morning, staring in the mirror. “Bags under my eyes down to my knees.” Marina kept quiet. She fed the baby, rocked him, fed him again—a never-ending cycle. And Igor, her husband, was nearby, complaining instead of helping. “Hey, maybe your mum could watch him for a bit?” he suggested one evening, stretching out after his shower, fresh and rested. “I was thinking of going to my mate’s place in the countryside for a week.” Marina froze with the bottle in her hand. “I need a break, Marina. Honestly.” Igor began stuffing clothes into his gym bag. “I haven’t had a proper night’s sleep in ages.” And she—does she sleep?! Her eyelids droop, but as soon as she lies down, Max starts crying. Fourth time tonight. “It’s hard for me too,” Marina whispered. “Yeah, I get that it’s hard,” Igor waved her off, shoving his favourite shirt into the bag. “But my job’s serious; I have real responsibilities. Can’t show up to clients looking like this.” Then something strange happened. Marina saw them from the outside: her, in a stained dressing gown, hair a mess, baby wailing in her arms; and Igor, packing his suitcase, escaping. “I want to live for myself and get some sleep,” Igor muttered, not even looking her way. The door slammed. Marina stood alone in the flat with her crying son, feeling everything collapse inside. A week passed. Then another. Igor called maybe three times—asked how things were. His voice was distant, like he was chatting with an old acquaintance. “I’ll come at the weekend.” He didn’t. “I’ll definitely be there tomorrow.” Again, he didn’t show. Marina rocked her screaming baby, changed nappies, prepared formula. She slept in half-hour bursts between feeds. “Everything alright?” her friend asked. “Great,” she lied. Why did she lie? The shame. Shame that her husband had left, that she was alone with a newborn. As if things couldn’t get worse. But the real fun began at the shop—she bumped into Igor’s coworker. “Where’s your husband?” Lena asked. “Working lots.” “Figures. Men are all alike—once a baby comes, they’re always busy at work.” Lena leaned in: “Does Igor travel for work much?” “Travel?” “Well, he just went up to Manchester for that seminar, didn’t he? Showed us the pictures.” Manchester? When? Marina remembered: last week, Igor hadn’t called for three days. Said he was busy. Busy? No. Off holidaying in Manchester. Igor turned up on Saturday. With flowers. “Sorry I was gone so long. Busy at work.” “You went to Manchester?” He froze with the bouquet in hand. “Who said?” “It doesn’t matter who. Why lie?” “I’m not lying. Just thought you’d be upset I went without you.” Without her?! With a baby, she couldn’t go anywhere! “Igor, I need help. I haven’t slept in weeks.” “We’ll hire a nanny.” “With what money? You don’t give me any.” “What do you mean? I pay the rent and bills.” “And for food? Nappies? Medicine?” Silence. Then: “Maybe you could go back to work? Even part-time? No sense sitting at home. We’ll hire a nanny.” Sitting at home—as if that’s a break! Marina picked up her son, looked at Igor, and understood: he didn’t love her. Never had. “Get out.” “What?” “Go. And don’t come back until you decide what matters—your family or your freedom.” Igor grabbed his keys and left. Two days later, he texted: “Thinking.” Meanwhile, Marina didn’t sleep. And she thought too. Imagine being alone with your own thoughts for the first time in months. Her mum rang: “How are you, Marina? Igor not home?” “On a business trip.” Another lie. “Shall I come over? Help out?” “I’ll manage.” But her mum came anyway. “How’s things?” Mum looked around. “Good grief, Marina, look at yourself!” Marina glanced in the mirror. She looked a state. “And Igor?” “Working.” “At eight in the evening?” Marina was silent. “What’s going on?” And Marina broke down. Really, like a child—loud and desperate. “He left. Said he wants to live for himself.” Mum was silent. Then: “What a bastard. Utter bastard.” Marina was stunned—her mum never swore. “I always thought Igor was weak. But this much…” “Mum, maybe I’m wrong? Should I have been more understanding?” “Marina, isn’t it hard for you?” That simple question made Marina realise: she’d only ever worried about Igor. His tiredness, his comfort. Never about herself. “What should I do?” “Live. Without him. Better on your own than with someone like that.” Igor came back Saturday. Tanned. Clearly “thinking” at his mate’s place. “Can we talk?” “Alright.” They sat at the table: “Look, Marina, I know it’s hard for you. But it’s not easy for me either. Can we agree? I’ll send money and visit. Just need to live separately for now.” “How much?” “What?” “Money. How much?” “Well, ten thousand.” Ten thousand. For a child, food, medicine. “Igor, get lost.” “What?!” “You heard me. Don’t come back.” “Marina, this is business!” “Business? You want freedom? Where’s mine?” Then Igor said the line that changed everything: “What freedom do you have? You’re a mother!” Marina looked at him—this was the real Igor. An immature, self-centred man who thought motherhood was a life sentence. “I’ll file for child support tomorrow. A quarter of your salary. By law.” “You wouldn’t dare!” “I would.” He stormed out, slamming the door. For the first time, Marina felt she could breathe easier. Max cried. But she knew now: she’d manage. A year passed. Igor tried coming back twice. “Marina, shall we give it another go?” “Too late.” Igor whined that Marina was a “hard cow.” She didn’t care. Marina hired a nanny and started working as a nurse. At the hospital, she met Dr. Andrew. “Any children?” “A son.” “And Dad?” “Living for himself.” She introduced them. Andrew brought toy cars for Max. They played and laughed together. Soon, the three of them were always out at the park. Igor found out and called: “The kid’s only a year old, and you’re out with other men!” “And what? Should I wait for you?” “But you’re a mother!” “Yes, I am. So?” He never called again. Andrew was different. When Max got sick, he was there. When Marina was exhausted, he took them to his cottage in the country. Now Max is two. He calls Andrew “Uncle.” He doesn’t remember Igor. Igor’s remarried. Pays child support. Marina doesn’t resent him. She’s living for herself now too. And it’s wonderful.

I Paid for My Stepdaughter’s Fifteenth Birthday Party, but Her Father Went Back to His Ex-Wife For ten years, I raised this child as my own. I changed nappies when she was little. I took her to lessons every week. I helped her with homework, taught her to look after herself, hugged her through her first heartbreak. And she called me “Mum.” Not “Dad’s wife.” Not “Stepmother.” Mum. For her fifteenth, I’d spent months planning the celebration. I booked a lovely venue, ordered a dress, arranged music, and catering for loads of guests. I spent my savings, but I knew it was worth it. This was my child. Or so I thought. Three weeks before the party, her biological mother turned up. The woman who’d been gone for years—no support, no calls, no presence. Suddenly she was in my house, upset, talking about wanting a fresh start. I should’ve known something was wrong. But I trusted. On the day of the party, I arrived early to check the final details. The hall was perfect—decorated, arranged, everything in place. While making sure it was all just right, someone tapped me on the shoulder. They told me I should leave. That this was a “family moment.” That I wasn’t needed. I tried to explain that I’d raised this child. That I’d paid for everything. But it changed nothing. The man I’d spent years with simply said, “It’s best for the child this way.” I didn’t cry. I didn’t shout. I just walked away. That evening, as I packed my things into boxes, the doorbell rang. It was late. I opened the door. There she was—in her party dress, crying, exhausted. “I left,” she told me. “I couldn’t stay there without you.” I tried to tell her she needed to be with her parents, but she hugged me and whispered: “You’re my mum. You know everything about me. You’ve always been there.” I held her tight. She told me that when they thanked the “family” at the party, she asked where I was. They told her I’d chosen not to come. So she told them the truth—in front of everyone. And she left. She stayed with me. We watched films late into the night, ate pizza, talked. For the first time in days, I felt at peace. The next day, I had lots of phone calls. I didn’t answer. Months later, everything was over, officially. I started a new life. She kept going with her studies, and chose to stay with me. She keeps that dress in her wardrobe. “To remember the day I chose my real family,” she says. And sometimes I wonder: Who really walked away from whom that day?

Yesterday I Quit My “Job” as Grandma—No Notice, No Paperwork: I Simply Set Down the Birthday Cake, Grabbed My Bag, and Walked Out of My Daughter’s House My “employer” was my own daughter—Charlotte. For years, I believed my pay was love. But yesterday I realised: in our family economy, my love isn’t worth much next to brand-new tablets. I’m Anne, I’m 64—retired nurse, living on a modest pension in the suburbs, but in reality I’m the driver, cook, cleaner, home tutor, counsellor, and on-call “ambulance” for two grandsons, Max (9) and Daniel (7). I’m what you’d call the village—the community that’s meant to raise a child, except now the “community” is usually one exhausted grandma surviving on coffee, valerian, and painkillers. Charlotte works in marketing; her husband, Andrew, in finance. Nice people—or so I kept telling myself. Nursery’s expensive, school is tricky, clubs are harder, so when Max was born, they looked at me like drowning people. “Mum, we can’t afford a nanny,” Charlotte sobbed. “And we don’t trust strangers. Only you.” So I agreed—not wanting to be a burden, I became the foundation. My days start at 5:45am: I make porridge (not the “quick” kind Denny refuses), get the kids ready, drive to school, clean floors I didn’t dirty, scrub toilets I didn’t use, ferry them to clubs—English, football, homework. I’m Grandma Routine. Grandma “No”. Grandma Rules. There’s also Susan—Andrew’s mum. She lives by the seaside in a new apartment with a facelift, a new car, endless holidays. She pops in twice a year; doesn’t know Max’s allergies, or how to calm Daniel when maths sends him into meltdown. She’s never scrubbed sick off a car seat. Susan’s Fun Grandma. Yesterday Max turned nine. I’d spent weeks preparing—little money, but I wanted my gift to be special. I’d spent three months knitting him a heavy blanket, his favourite colours, to help him sleep. I baked a real cake. At 4:15pm, Susan swept in—a cloud of perfume and shopping bags. “Where are my boys?!” My grandsons pushed past me to greet her. She perched on the sofa, pulled out the branded bag. “I didn’t know what you liked, so I got the newest thing,” she declared—two top-of-the-range gaming tablets. “No limits today—my rules!” The kids lost the plot. Cake and guests forgotten. Charlotte and Andrew beamed. “Is it really necessary…” Andrew said as he poured her wine. “You spoil them.” I stood there holding my blanket. “Max, I brought you something too…and I baked a cake.” He didn’t look up. “Not now, Grandma, I’m beating a level.” “I spent all winter knitting…” He sighed. “No one wants blankets anymore, Grandma. Susan brought tablets. Why are you always so boring—just food and clothes?” I glanced at Charlotte, waiting for her to help. She laughed awkwardly: “Mum, don’t be upset. He’s just a kid. Of course the tablet’s more fun. Susan’s the ‘fun grandma’. You’re…you know…you’re our everyday.” Everyday Grandma. Like everyday dishes, everyday traffic. Needed, but invisible. “I want Susan to live here,” Daniel announced. “She doesn’t make us do homework.” That’s when something snapped. I folded up the blanket, set it on the table, hung up my apron. “Charlotte, I’m done.” “What do you mean—cut the cake?” “No. I’m done.” I picked up my bag. “I’m not a machine you just switch off. I’m your mother.” “Mum, where are you going?” she cried. “My presentation’s tomorrow! Who’ll pick up the kids?” “I don’t know. Maybe sell a tablet. Or let Fun Grandma stay.” “But we need you!” I paused at the door. “That’s just it. You need me—but you don’t see me.” I walked out. This morning, I woke at 9. Made coffee. Sat on my porch. And for the first time in years, my back didn’t ache. I love my grandsons. But I refuse to live as free labour masquerading as “family”. Love isn’t self-destruction, and a grandma isn’t just a resource. If they want Grandma Routine, they better respect the routine. For now… maybe I’ll join a dance class. Isn’t that what “fun grandmas” do?