Lydia Whitmore stood by her kitchen window, watching as her grandson Oliver hurled stones at the neighbour’s tabby. The boy was only seven, but there was a simmering anger in his movements that sent a chill through her.
“Oliver, stop that this instant!” she called, pushing the window open.
He didn’t turn. Instead, he picked up a larger rock and launched it again. The cat yowled in protest before darting behind the garages.
Lydia sighed and reached for her cardigan. She knew she had to go down and speak with him, but what good would it do? Oliver never listened—he’d snap back or storm off to complain his mother.
In the hallway, she nearly collided with Mrs. Thompson from next door.
“Lydia, have you seen what your grandson’s been up to?” the woman demanded. “Chasing poor Whiskers again!”
“I saw, Margaret. I’ll speak to him.”
“And what good will that do? You ought to talk to Charlotte! This is all down to her—no discipline, no manners!”
Lydia clenched her jaw. Charlotte was her daughter. However strained their relationship, she wouldn’t stand by while someone criticised her.
Outside, Oliver had moved on to a new pastime—pulling wings off flies trapped in a jar.
“Oliver, what are you doing?” Lydia lowered herself onto the bench beside him.
“Experimenting,” he muttered, not looking up.
“Experimenting with what?”
“Seeing how they manage without wings.”
“And why do you need to know that?”
He shrugged. “Dunno. Just curious.”
Lydia carefully took the jar from his hands. “Flies are living creatures, love. It hurts them when you do that.”
“So what? They’re pests.”
“Oliver, it’s wrong to hurt anything—even if you don’t like them.”
He stared at her as if she’d spoken in riddles.
“Mum says if something’s weaker than you, you don’t have to be afraid of it.”
Her chest tightened. Was Charlotte really teaching him such things?
“Your mother says many things, love, but that doesn’t mean they’re right. The strong should protect the weak, not hurt them.”
“That’s rubbish,” he scoffed and bolted toward the swings.
That evening, Lydia waited for Charlotte. The moment her daughter stepped through the door, weary and irritable from work, the air turned brittle.
“Did you at least feed him?” Charlotte asked, bypassing a greeting.
“Of course. Charlotte, we need to talk.”
“About what?” Her fingers fiddled with the strap of her handbag.
“Oliver’s behaviour.”
Charlotte groaned. “Not this again. He’s seven, Mum! All kids his age muck about.”
“This isn’t mischief. He tortures animals, backtalks adults, refuses to listen—”
“And what d’you suggest? Lock him in his room?”
“I suggest raising him properly. Teaching him right from wrong.”
Charlotte let out a harsh laugh. “Times have changed. The world’s brutal. I won’t let my son grow up soft—a target for anyone to kick.”
“There’s a difference between strength and cruelty!”
“What difference? The point is not to let yourself be walked over.”
Lydia searched her daughter’s face and barely recognised her. Where was the kind girl she’d raised? When had she become so hard?
“Oliver, we’re leaving!” Charlotte barked toward the playground.
The boy trudged over.
“Gran, can I come back tomorrow?”
“Always, sweetheart.”
Charlotte snatched his hand and marched toward the gate. Before stepping through, she turned.
“And don’t fill his head with nonsense about kindness and fairness, Mum. The world doesn’t work like that.”
Long after they’d gone, Lydia sat on the bench, wondering where she’d gone wrong with Charlotte. She’d been an ordinary child—neither better nor worse than others. Had tried in school, helped at home, never been rude. What had twisted her?
The next day, Oliver arrived with a scratch across his cheek.
“What happened?” Lydia asked.
“Tom’s a git,” he muttered.
“Tom scratched you? Why?”
“For no reason.”
Lydia didn’t believe it. Tom was a quiet boy from down the road—she knew his parents well.
“Oliver, tell me the truth. What did you do?”
“Nothing much,” he mumbled, avoiding her eyes. “Just took his sweets.”
“Took or snatched?”
“Snatched. But I didn’t hit him!”
“Did he refuse to share?”
“Yeah. Tight-fisted little sod.”
Lydia exhaled slowly. “Oliver, you can’t take what isn’t yours. If you want sweets, you ask or buy your own.”
“Why bother? He’s weaker. Mum says the strong make the rules.”
“Your mother’s wrong.”
Oliver’s eyes widened. “Mum’s never wrong. She’s a grown-up.”
“Grown-ups make mistakes too, love. Even your mum.”
The boy chewed his lip, thinking.
“If Mum’s wrong, who’s right?”
“Those who don’t hurt the weak. Who help others. Who tell the truth.”
“So… you’re right and Mum’s not?”
Lydia hesitated. She didn’t want to turn him against Charlotte, but silence wasn’t an option anymore.
“I try to be. But most of all, you listen to your conscience. That little voice inside that tells you what’s good and bad. When you took Tom’s sweets, did it say anything?”
Oliver frowned. “Yeah. But Mum says that’s daft.”
“And what do you think?”
“Dunno,” he admitted.
Lydia told him a story then—about a kind giant who protected the weak instead of bullying them. Oliver listened, asking questions. For the first time in months, she saw curiosity in his eyes instead of defiance.
Later, they went outside. Tom was playing with others but shrank back when he spotted Oliver.
“Oliver,” Lydia whispered. “Will you apologise to Tom?”
He scowled. “Why?”
“Because you hurt him.”
“But he’s weaker.”
“Exactly why you should say sorry.”
For a long moment, Oliver hesitated. Then, with a grumble, he shuffled over.
“’S’about the sweets,” he muttered.
Tom blinked in surprise. “S’alright.”
“Wanna play together?”
Tom grinned. “Yeah.”
Off they ran toward the sandpit. Lydia’s heart lifted.
That evening, Charlotte arrived in a fouler mood than usual.
“What rubbish have you been filling Oliver’s head with?” she snapped the moment she stepped in.
“Pardon?”
“Tom’s mum rang. Said Oliver apologised. For what? Taking sweets?”
“For stealing them.”
“So what? Kids nick things all the time! You’re turning him into a doormat!”
“I’m teaching him to be decent.”
“Decent?” Charlotte scoffed. “Wake up, Mum. Decent people get trampled. The world’s vicious—if you don’t fight, you lose!”
Lydia studied her daughter. The bitterness in her voice wasn’t just anger—it was exhaustion. Pain.
“Charlotte, what’s happened to you? Who hurt you so badly?”
Her gaze flickered away. “No one. Life did.”
“Life taught you what?”
“That kindness is weakness. That if you’re good, people use you. That you’ve got to put yourself first.”
“And you want Oliver to live like that?”
“I want him to survive.”
Lydia pulled her into an embrace. Charlotte stiffened at first, then—suddenly—broke.
“Mum, I’m so tired,” she whispered, voice cracking. “Tired of fighting, tired of proving I’m worth anything. My boss belittles me daily. Oliver’s dad left when I got pregnant. My friends vanished when I asked for help.”
“And you decided everyone’s rotten?”
“Aren’t they?”
“Not all of them, love. You just have to know where to look.”
Charlotte wiped her eyes. “I don’t want Oliver to go through what I did. Better hard than naive.”
“Or—what if there’s a third way? Kind but not weak. Helpful but not a pushover?”
“How?”
“Teach him to read people. Show him kindness isn’t weakness—it’s strength. That real strength means standing up for yourself but never crushing those beneath you.”
Charlotte fell silent. Then, softly: “You really think that’s possible?”
“Look at Oliver today. He apologised. He and Tom are friends now. Has that made him weaker?”
“No,” Charlotte admitted. “Tom’d defend him now.”
“There. Kindness draws kindness. Cruelty just brings more of the same.”
From the corner, where Oliver was playing, came a small voice:
“Mum… can I give Tom my toy lorry tomorrow? He likes it.”
Charlotte turned. “Why?”
“’Cos he’s nice. It’s
