A Grandson’s Request: An Uplifting Story of Trust, Family, and the Power of Believing in Each Other

Author Emily TaylorReading 7 minViews 2

Gran, I need a favour. I really need some money.

A lot of money.

Her grandson had popped round in the evening, visibly jittery. He usually came by a couple of times a weekpopping to the shop or hauling out the recycling. Once, he’d even fixed her antique armchair; it would surely outlive them all. And he was always so calm, so self-assured. But tonight the poor lad looked like he’d been locked in a cupboard with a particularly mean cat.

Lillian Watson always worriedso much goes on in the world these days.

Tom, if you dont mind me asking, what do you need the money for? And how much is a lot? Lillian tried not to sound as worried as she felt.

Tom was her eldest grandson. Lovely boy. Kind-hearted. Hed finished college last year. Worked part-time and was studying through an open university. His parents hadnt mentioned anything untoward. But stillwhy did he need so much?

I cant really say yet, Gran, but Ill pay you back, honestly. Just not all at onceitll have to be bits and bobs.

You do remember, I live on my pension, she said, softening her tone. How much are we talking?

One thousand pounds.

Why not ask your mum and dad? The words slipped out automatically, and she already knew the answer. Her son-in-law was stricter than a grammar school headmaster, and firmly believed his son should be able to sort out his own mess, age-appropriately, and not go running for help at the drop of a hat.

They wont give it, Gran, Tom confirmed her thoughts before shed even finished them.

What if hed gotten himself into some kind of trouble? Would giving the money only make it worse? But thenif she didnt help, would Tom face worse consequences? She peered at him, torn.

Gran, really, you have nothing to worry about, Tom picked up on her expression. Ill have it back to you in three monthspromise! Dont you trust me?

Maybe she should help himeven if she never saw the money again. Someone in the world must have his back. He had to believe in good people. That money had been sitting there, just in case; well, perhaps this was what just in case looked like. Tom had come to her, after all. She wasnt about to start planning her own funeral just yet. And anyway, when the time came, someone would sort it out. Now, it was her job to think about the living. To trust those close to her.

Folks always say: if you lend someone money, consider it gone. Young people are a mystery, half the time, you never really know what theyre thinking. Then again, Tom had never let her down.

All right, Tom, Ill lend you the money. For three months, just as you said. But do you think its wise keeping it from your parents?

Oh Gran, you know I love you to bits. I always keep my promises. But if you cant, Ill just see about a loanI am earning, after all.

The next morning, Lillian trotted off to the bank, withdrew a grand, and handed the cash over.

Toms face lit up like Blackpool Illuminations. He kissed her cheek and grinned:

Thank you, Gran. Youre the best. Ill have it back to you, youll see! And with that, he dashed out the door.

Lillian nestled back in her favourite chair, poured herself a nice cup of tea, and mulled it over. How many times had she been in a tight spot, desperate for help? And there was always someone who came through for her. Times had changed, thougheveryone for themselves these days. Not easy times, by any stretch.

A week later, Tom popped in again, practically walking on air.

Gran, heres some money backgot an advance at work! Mind if I bring someone with me tomorrow?

Of course, love. Ill bake your favouritepoppy seed cake, she beamed. Good. Maybe tomorrow things would make more sense. She just wanted to know Tom was all right.

That evening, Tom showed up on her doorstep with a slight, bespectacled girl at his side.

Gran, this is Emily. Emily, this is my lovely gran, Lillian Watson.

Emily smiled shyly, Hello, Mrs Watson. Thank you ever so much.

Come in, its a pleasure to meet you. Lillian felt herself relax she liked Emily instantly.

They all sat down with tea and cake.

Gran, I couldnt say anything before. Emily was in piecesher mums been really ill, out of the blue. Nobody else could help out, and shes a bit superstitious, told me not to say what the money was for. But everythings all right now, her mum had the operation, doctors say it went well. Tom looked at Emily as if she were the eighth wonder of the world, and squeezed her hand.

Thank you so much, youre so kind, Im really so grateful, Emily murmured, dabbing her eyes with a napkin.

Its all right, Em, dont cry now, love, its over and done, Tom stood up, Gran, well head offits getting late and Ill walk Emily home.

All right, dears, goodnight. Take care and may everything go well. Lillian made a small cross in the air behind them out of sheer habit, a leftover from her own grans days.

Her grandson had grown upa good lad. She was glad shed trusted him. It wasnt just about money. Theyd got closer somehow.

Two months later, Tom returned every penny.

Gran, you wont believe it, the doctor said they caught it just in time. If you hadnt helped when you did, things couldve been really different. Thank you, Gran. You know, I didnt know what to do for Emily back then. But now I believetheres always someone wholl help when things get tough. Ill do anything for you, Gran, honestlyyoure the best!

Lillian ruffled Toms hair, just like when he was little.

All right, off you go. And bring Emily round sometimeIll be glad to see you both.

Definitely! Tom gave her a bear-hug.

She closed the door, recalling what her own grandmother used to say:

You must always help your ownproper English way. Be good to everyone, and your family will be good to you. Dont you ever forget that, love.As she settled back into her chair, the house full of gentle silence and the faint scent of poppy seed lingering in the air, Lillian glanced at the framed photographs on her mantelpiecefaces of family, some gone, most still bustling about in the wide world. She wrapped her hands around her teacup, warmth spreading from palms to her heart.

For a long moment, she listened to the quiet, feeling more connected than ever, as if threads of kindness wove invisible patterns between each of them, strong and certain. In a world that sometimes felt rushed or cold, she knew now: a simple act of trust could ripple outward, reaching farther than anyone might guess.

From the street outside, she heard Tom laughing, Emilys voice joining in, light and hopeful. Lillian smiled, content, her mind echoing with the old family wordslove, trust, the gift of being there for each other. The world turned, and the kettle whistled softly once more.

She rose to put the kettle on again, heart at ease, already looking forward to Sundayanother afternoon, another story, another chance to show what family meant.

You Just Don’t Realise What Happiness Is — Half a million quid? — Carina stared at the notification on her phone, rereading it three times before the numbers made any sense. — You took out a loan for half a million pounds? Dmitry was slouched on the sofa, glued to his smartphone, not bothering to look up. — Oh, that… Yeah, just a bit, for Mum’s new kitchen. You know her pipes leak, the floor’s warped, and the wallpaper’s peeling… — Wait. — Carina sank onto the armchair; her legs wouldn’t keep her up. — You took out a loan. Half a million. And gave it all to your mother. Without saying a word to me? Dmitry finally tore himself from his phone, genuine confusion on his face, as if she’d asked something utterly normal. — Carina, it’s Mum. She’s on her own, her pension’s rubbish. Who else is going to help? — You could have talked to me! — Carina found herself shouting, unable to stop. — Asked my opinion? At least warned me? — You’d just argue — Dmitry shrugged — and Mum needed it fast. Four years. Four years tolerating this woman: the nightly calls to check what Dima had for tea, the unannounced visits criticising the flat’s cleanliness, the family dinners where Carina always ended up at the far end of the table. — Don’t make a drama out of nothing, Dmitry said, calm as ever. — We’ll cope. Pay off quick, it’s not much. It’s family. Hot, angry tears spilled over as Carina wiped them away, smudging mascara down her cheeks. — Family? Am I—family? Or just an accessory? Remember when your mother decided we needed a new car and you sold ours without asking? When she dumped my stuff out of the guest room because she couldn’t “sleep among strangers’ clutter”? Or when, on my birthday, you both left to buy her a new fridge? — All small things — Dmitry waved a hand. — You’re tired, that’s all. You need a break. She looked at this man — tall, gentle features, the dimples she’d once found charming. Now he seemed little more than a thirty-year-old child, unable to cut the cord. — We’ll manage — he repeated, mantra-like. — Love conquers all. Carina got up and left for the bedroom. Her two big duffel bags were still on the top shelf from when she first moved in. She dragged them down, threw them onto the bed, and began opening drawers. Dmitry appeared in the doorway twenty minutes later, first bag crammed full. — What are you doing? Carina, don’t be silly. You’re not serious? She didn’t answer. Methodically stacked jumpers, jeans, underwear. Picked the jewellery box off the shelf — gifts from friends and family, nothing from him. — Where will you go? To your mum’s? She’s in Manchester! Zipped up the second bag. Checked her handbag — passport, cards, keys to her mum’s place, just in case. — Carina, say something! You can’t leave me. I love you! She held his gaze for a long moment. Then lifted the bags and walked out. …Next morning, Carina was in the registry office queue, divorce papers clutched tight. Rain drizzled outside, grey clouds sagged over rooftops, but inside she felt a strange peace. The decision was made. The first call came at half past two that night. Carina jolted awake on her friend Lena’s sofa, confused about where she was. — We need to talk — Dmitry’s breath was quick, words tumbling. — I understand now, I’ll change. Please, give me a chance. She hung up. Twenty minutes later, the phone rang again. — Carina, I can’t live without you. You’re the meaning of my life. By morning, there were forty-three messages. Each one— long, overflowing with tearful confessions, promises, threats. “If you don’t come back, who knows what I’ll do.” “Mum says you’re just being silly.” “I’ll wait for you forever.” A week on, he started turning up outside her office. Carina would leave for lunch and spot his familiar shape by the coffee shack across the road. Heading for the Tube after work, she’d see him shadowing her from the other side of the street. — Just passing by — Dmitry would smile when challenged. — Missed you, wanted to see you. One evening at Lena’s, the doorbell buzzed. Carina, expecting the pizza delivery, didn’t look through the peephole. Standing there was Dmitry, clutching a bouquet of red roses. — One more chance — he whispered. — That’s all I ask. She closed the door, silent. He stood outside for two hours, until the neighbours threatened to call the police. She learned to live with it — like people live with a dull ache. Not reading messages, not answering unknown calls, not turning around in the street. Switched jobs to remote working in a new firm, moved to a quiet outer suburb where Dmitry would never “accidentally” show up. Divorce went through three months later. Carina exited the court holding the official papers, bursting into tears on the steps — not out of grief, but relief. At first, freedom was terrifying in its emptiness. She’d always checked every decision with someone, even though that someone did whatever he liked anyway. Now she could buy any yoghurt she wanted, not caring whether Yelena Viktorovna approved. Watch any film, without hearing “decent women don’t watch that sort of thing.” She could breathe. She signed up for English classes — an old dream, dismissed by Dmitry as “a waste of money.” Started yoga at dawn, before the city woke. Spent a weekend in Brighton, alone, wandering the lanes, tasting fudge, eating chips on the pier. Six months later, the calls stopped. The messages too. Carina waited for something else to go wrong, but as months passed she dared to relax. Landed a job at a vibrant marketing agency — bright office, young team, creative work. Life was looking up. …She met Andrew at the office Christmas party, coaxed there by her colleague Maddy. — This is our head developer — Maddy introduced a tall, bespectacled bloke. — Andrew, this is Carina from marketing. He shook her hand — firm, but gentle. His smile was effortless, not trying to impress. — You avoiding karaoke too? — he nodded toward the HR manager butchering “Wonderwall” on stage. — Saving my nerves — Carina grinned. They talked all evening — about books, travel, and the strangeness of life. Andrew listened more than he talked. Asked questions and waited for answers, never lecturing or instructing. When he heard she’d been divorced, he just nodded and changed the topic. …Within six months they’d moved in together, choosing a flat in town — small, sunny, high ceilings and a view of a tranquil courtyard. — Are you sure you like this place? — Carina asked as they checked it before signing the lease. — Shall we look at a few more? — Do you like it? — Andrew replied. — Yes, I love it. — Then let’s take it. Such little things — having her opinion heard — mattered more than any big talk of love. He proposed on their rooftop at sunset, sky streaked pink and gold. Opened a tiny box to reveal a sparkling diamond ring. — I’m rubbish at speeches — Andrew confessed. — But I want to wake up next to you every day. If you’re willing to put up with my snoring and terrible taste in coffee. Carina laughed through tears, and nodded. …That May evening began as usual. Andrew stayed late at the office — impossible deadline, some code gone haywire. Carina made pasta, humming with the radio, when the buzzer rang: sharp, urgent, demanding. She peered through the spyhole — and recoiled. Dmitry was outside. Pallid, tired eyes, crumpled shirt. Two years. Two years of silence, and now here he was. — Carina, open up! — his fist hammered the door. — I know you’re in! We need to talk! She snatched her phone, dialled Andrew. Engaged. — We love each other! — Dmitry shouted through the door. — You can’t be with someone else! It’s not right! The door shook — he was trying to force it. Carina pressed her back against it, braced her feet. — Go away! — she yelled. — I’ll call the police! — You’re my wife! — his voice shrilled. — You were mine, you will be! I waited two years for this! Two years! — We’re divorced! It’s over! — It’s never over! — another slam, Carina barely keeping the door shut. — I’ve changed! Mum says you just don’t realise what happiness is! Open up, let’s talk! She could see his face twisted in the spyhole — wild, possessed. Not the man she’d once shared a bed with. She dialled 999. — Dmitry! One call and the police are here. Leave. Now. He froze. A few moments of silence. Then swiftly turned and stomped downstairs. The front door slammed below. Carina slid to the floor, ears ringing. Half an hour later she managed to stand and call Andrew. The next day, she filed a police report. The community officer — an older gent with a grey moustache — took it all down, nodded. — We’ll sort it. Have a word. Whatever he said to Dmitry, Carina never discovered. But her ex never appeared or contacted her again. No calls, no messages, no shadow on her doorstep. …They held their wedding in early June, at a cosy country restaurant — twenty close friends, no fuss, no awkward in-laws demanding traditions. Carina stood opposite Andrew in a simple white dress, squeezing his warm hands in hers. Outside, birch trees whispered, the scent of flowers and fresh-cut grass drifted in. — Do you… — the officiant began. — I do — Carina cut in, making the guests laugh. Andrew slid the ring onto her finger — slim gold band, engraved inside. Three words: “Always with you.” She looked up at the man who would be her husband. Not a mummy’s boy, not a haunted stalker. Just a man who listened, respected, and loved. Ahead lay a life where her voice mattered…

Dandelion Jam After a snowy but gentle winter with no harsh frosts, the cold has grown tiresome and the longing for green leaves, colourful blossoms, and the chance to cast off heavy coats fills the air. Spring arrives in a small English town, and Tessa, who has lived in her cosy five-storey flat for years, awaits nature’s awakening. Looking down from her third-floor window, Tessa muses, “With these warm spring days, the town feels alive after its long winter slumber. Even the cars grumble differently and the local market has new energy. Bright jackets and coats everywhere, and the birds wake us before our alarms. Ah, spring is wonderful, and summer will be even better…” Nowadays, Tessa shares her flat with her granddaughter Violet, a fourth-year student at the primary school. Violet’s parents—both doctors—moved to Africa for work a year ago, leaving their daughter in Tessa’s care. “Mum, we trust you to look after our Violet. We know she’ll be happy with you,” Tessa’s daughter said when they left. “Of course I’ll take care of her—she’ll keep me company in retirement. Off you go, we’ll be fine,” Tessa replied. “Hurrah, Granny! Now we’ll really live – we’ll go to the park all the time. Mum and Dad are always busy. They never have time,” Violet cheered. After breakfast and seeing Violet off to school, Tessa loses track of the morning in a flurry of chores. “I’ll pop to the shop before Violet gets home from school—I promised her something sweet for her good grades,” she thinks, grabbing her shopping bag. Outside, the neighbourhood bench is already occupied by two locals—Mrs. Simmons, an ageless woman of at least seventy (or perhaps more, as she keeps her birth year secret), living alone in a ground-floor flat, and Mrs. Valentina, seventy-five, vivacious, well-read, and a joyful contrast to the ever-complaining Mrs. Simmons. As soon as the sun returns and the snow melts, this bench is rarely empty—Mrs. Simmons and Mrs. Valentina are regulars, armed with cushions to ward off the lingering chill, busy keeping tabs on the world around them. Tessa sometimes joins them to chat about news, magazine stories, or television shows, with Mrs. Simmons inevitably remarking on her blood pressure. “Morning ladies,” Tessa greets them cheerfully. “On duty already?” “Morning, Tess. Duty calls, otherwise we’d get detention,” Mrs. Simmons replies, eyeing Tessa’s bag. “Off to the shops?” “Just for a treat before Violet gets back from school,” Tessa says, moving on. The day passes with familiar rhythm—school pick-up, lunch, homework, and chores. Violet heads to her dance class, a passion she’s followed for six years, and Tessa beams with pride for her talented granddaughter. Tessa waits on the bench for Violet’s return, joined by Mr. George Ilchester from the second floor. “Lonely out here?” he asks. “How could I be lonely on a day like this? Spring is gorgeous,” Tessa replies. They chat about the sunshine, birdsong, and golden coltsfoot flowers, bright as tiny suns. Suddenly, Violet surprises them, leaping onto Tessa’s neck with a playful bark. “You little rascal! You nearly scared me to death!” Tessa laughs. “Plenty of time before that!” George Ilchester jokes. Tessa tempts Violet inside with grated carrots and sugar, her favourite meatballs waiting. Mr. Ilchester, enticed by the talk of food, heads home too, promising a later stroll. That evening, Tessa returns to the bench. Mr. Ilchester waits, the regular ladies gone to dinner. From that night, their friendship grows—they walk to the park, read newspapers, swap recipes and stories, and share memories. George Ilchester has known hardship; widowed young, he raised his daughter Vera alone, juggling two jobs. As Vera grew and moved away, visits became rare, her affection cold. Divorce left her raising a son alone. “Tess, my daughter’s coming to visit in two days. Just called out of the blue…” George confides. “Strange, we haven’t spoken in years.” “Maybe she misses you. In time, family means more,” Tessa suggests. Vera’s visit is brief and businesslike. She pressures George to sell his flat and move in with her, claiming he doesn’t need so much space. George refuses, uncomfortable with leaving his home for a brisk, joyless household. Vera goes to Tessa, asking her to persuade George to sell. Upon receiving a gentle refusal, Vera grows furious, accusing Tessa of wanting the flat for herself—a spiteful tirade about Tessa and George together, sharing walks and dandelion lore, and she storms out. Tessa feels embarrassed, worried the neighbours heard Vera’s accusations, and avoids George after Vera’s departure. But life has its way of mending fences. Returning from the shop, Tessa finds George by the door, weaving a dandelion crown. “Tessa, don’t run—I need to say sorry for Vera,” he says quietly. “She said awful things, but I’ll always be here for my grandson. Have this dandelion wreath—and you must try my dandelion jam, it’s delicious and healthy. Brilliant in salads too,” he smiles. They make a salad together and enjoy tea with dandelion jam, which Tessa finds utterly delightful. That evening, they return to the park with their favourite magazine, reading on the bench beneath the old English lime tree, losing themselves in conversation, content together. Thank you for reading, subscribing, and supporting me. Wishing you happiness always!

Dandelion Jam Winter’s snowy blanket finally melted away—no hard frosts this year, just a gentle, white season. Yet as the last traces faded, the longing for lush green leaves, vivid blossoms, and the chance to shed bulky coats grew stronger. Spring arrived in the small English town, and Tessa, who adored the season’s awakening, watched from her third-floor window: — With the first warm days, the whole town seems to stir after a long hibernation. Even the rumble of lorries sounds livelier, and the market buzzes with fresh energy. People stride about in colourful jackets and coats, birds are our morning alarm clocks now—spring is wonderful, and summer will be even better… Tessa had lived in her five-story block for years, now sharing it with her granddaughter, Violet, a year-four student. Violet’s parents—both doctors—had moved to Africa on a work contract, leaving their daughter in Grandma’s care. — Mum, we’re entrusting Violet to you. We know you’ll mind her well, pulling her all the way to Africa doesn’t make sense, said Tessa’s daughter. — Of course I’ll look after her—I’ll enjoy her company in retirement. Off you go, Violet and I will be just fine here, replied Tessa. — Hooray, Grandma! We’ll have so much fun together, walking in the park and spending time—Mum and Dad are always busy. They never have time for me, cheered Violet. After sending Violet off to school with breakfast, Tessa busied herself with chores, the hours slipping by unnoticed. — I’ll pop to the shop before Violet comes flying home from school—promised her something sweet for her good marks, Tessa thought, grabbing her bag and heading out. Outside on the chilly bench—cushioned for warmth—sat two neighbours. Mrs Simmons, whose real age was anyone’s guess (she kept that secret), lived on the ground floor, and Mrs Valery, seventy-five, well-read, boisterous, the cheerful opposite of Simmons, who found fault with everything. As soon as the snow melted and the sun returned, this bench was never empty, especially with Simmons and Valery as regulars—chatting all day long, knowing everyone’s business. Tessa sometimes joined in, swapping news and TV stories, Simmons always keen to discuss her blood pressure. — Morning, ladies, smiled Tessa. On duty, are we? — Morning, Tess. Of course, duty calls! Off to the shop, I see? Simmons asked, spying her bag. — That’s right, I promised Violet a treat for her top marks. Off I go, said Tessa, not lingering. The day passed in its usual way—school run, lunch, homework, chores, TV. — Grandma, I’m off to dance club! called Violet, rucksack and mobile in hand. She’d danced for six years, performing at every event, and Tessa was ever proud. — All right, darling, go and have fun, Tessa said, seeing her off. That evening, Tessa sat alone on the bench, waiting for Violet. — Lonely out here? asked Mr Edgar from the second floor, joining her. — Who could be lonely in weather like this? Spring’s here, birds singing, the world’s turning green—those buttercups look just like tiny suns, smiled Edgar, and Tessa agreed. Just then Violet dashed up with a surprise shout: — Woof woof! — You little rascal, gave me a fright! laughed Tessa. — Don’t start talking about old age, smiled Edgar, gently clapping her shoulder. — Come on in, rascal. I grated carrot with sugar for you, after all that dancing, and made your favourite cottage pie, Tessa said affectionately. Edgar got up too. — All this talk of cottage pie’s made me hungry! I’ll nip in for a bite. Maybe we’ll catch up later on the bench, or perhaps a stroll? said Edgar. — I can’t promise—much to do, but we’ll see… Still, Tessa came out later to the bench—and found Edgar waiting. The regulars were gone. — Simmons and Valery just left to eat, Edgar announced cheerily. From then on, Tessa and Edgar often met—sometimes strolling to the park across the road, reading the newspaper together, swopping stories and recipes. Edgar had his own trials—widowed young, he’d raised his daughter alone, working two jobs so Vera wanted for nothing, but he was rarely home. Vera grew up, married, moved cities, had a son—came to visit a few times and nothing more, her visits were never joyful. After fifteen years, she divorced and raised her son alone. — Tess, my daughter’s coming in two days, rang this morning. Odd… We haven’t spoken in years, said Edgar—they’d long been on first-name terms, talking freely. — Maybe she’s missing you—at a certain age, people need family close, suggested Tessa. — I doubt it… Vera arrived, brusque and serious. Edgar braced for a tough conversation. — Dad, I’m here on business. Let’s sell your flat, you move in with us, live with your grandson—it’ll be better, Vera said, her tone firm, plans made. But Edgar shrank from it—he didn’t want to uproot to a strange city under brooding supervision. He refused, citing habits and independence. Vera wasn’t deterred. Discovering his friendship with Tessa, she paid a visit. After tea and treats (including golden jam), Vera got down to business. — I see you and my father are close. Could you persuade him in an important matter? — What might that be? — Help me convince him to sell—why does he need so much space alone? Can’t he think of others? she snapped. Tessa was surprised by Vera’s coldness and refused. Furious, Vera lost composure: — Well, I see… Maybe you want the flat for yourself! Found a lonely old man, lining up an inheritance for your granddaughter… Romance on benches, chatting about dandelions! Two sweet old dandelions—you’ve probably filed for marriage already! But let me warn you—nothing will come of it, she threatened, switching to “you” as she shrieked, slamming the door. Embarrassed, Tessa worried the neighbours had overheard. Vera soon left, and Tessa started avoiding Edgar—ducking home whenever she saw him. And Yet, Tea With Dandelion Jam But life has its own plans. One day, heading home from the shop, Tessa found Edgar by the entrance, weaving a garland of yellow dandelions. — Tessa, don’t run—please, stay a moment. I’m sorry for my daughter; I know what she said—she’s gone now and claims she has no father left. But… Anyway, here—take this half-made dandelion crown. And I’ve made dandelion jam! Very healthy and delicious—you simply must try it. They’re great in salad too, Edgar said with a warm smile. After chatting about the wonders of dandelions, they made a salad together. Tessa tasted the jam with tea that evening—and loved it. Later, they walked to the park. — I’ve got the latest issue of our favourite magazine—shall we read on our bench under the old lime tree? Tessa sat next to Edgar, and laughter flowed. Conversation sparkled on, the rest of the world forgotten. Together, everything felt right. Thank you for reading, subscribing, and supporting me. Wishing you all the best in life!