Lydia Whitmore stood at her kitchen window, watching her grandson Max hurl stones at the neighbour’s cat. The boy was only seven, but there was a simmering spite in his movements that sent a chill down her spine.
“Max, stop that this instant!” she called, shoving the sash window open.
Max didn’t even glance up. He picked up a larger stone and lobbed it at the poor creature. The cat yowled and darted behind the row of garages.
Lydia sighed and reached for her cardigan. She’d have to go down and talk to him, though she knew it wouldn’t do much good. Max rarely listened to her—he’d either snap back or storm off home to complain to his mum, Alice.
In the stairwell, she nearly collided with next-door’s Margaret.
“Lydia, have you seen what your grandson’s up to?” Margaret huffed. “Chasing my Tabby again!”
“I saw, Margaret. I’ll have a word.”
“Oh, what’s the use? You ought to talk to Alice instead. This is all down to her parenting—or rather, the lack of it.”
Lydia stayed quiet. Arguing was pointless, but she couldn’t agree either. Alice was her daughter, and no matter how strained things got, she’d always defend her.
Out in the courtyard, Max had moved on to a new hobby—plucking wings off flies trapped in a jam jar.
“Max, what on earth are you doing?” Lydia settled beside him on the bench.
“Experimenting,” he muttered, not looking up.
“Experimenting with what?”
“How they’ll manage without wings.”
“And why’s that interesting?”
Max shrugged. “Dunno. Just is.”
Lydia gently pried the jar from his hands.
“Flies are living creatures too, love. It hurts them when you do that.”
“So what? They’re gross.”
“Max, it’s wrong to hurt anything, even if you don’t like it.”
He stared at her as if she’d spoken in ancient Greek.
“Mum says if someone’s weaker, you don’t have to be scared of ’em.”
Lydia’s chest tightened. Had Alice actually taught him that?
“Your mum says a lot of things, sweetheart, but that doesn’t make them right. The strong should protect the weak, not pick on them.”
“Rubbish,” Max scoffed, then bolted for the swings.
That evening, Lydia steeled herself for a talk with Alice. Her daughter arrived at eight, frazzled from work and already scowling.
“Did you feed him at least?” Alice asked, bypassing hello.
“Of course. Alice, we need to talk.”
“About what?” She fiddled with her handbag strap.
“About Max. His behaviour.”
Alice rolled her eyes. “Not this again. Mum, he’s seven! All kids muck about at that age.”
“This isn’t mucking about. He’s tormenting animals, mouthing off, refusing to listen—”
“And what’s your grand solution? Lock him in his room?”
“I’m saying he needs proper guidance. To learn right from wrong.”
Alice snorted. “Times have changed. You’ve got to be tough to get by now. I won’t raise a pushover.”
“There’s a difference between strength and cruelty!”
“What difference? Point is, don’t let anyone mess with you.”
Lydia studied her daughter’s face and barely recognised her. Where was the kind, bright-eyed girl she’d raised? When had Alice turned so bitter?
“Max, time to go!” Alice barked toward the play area.
The boy trudged over.
“Nan, can I come tomorrow?”
“Anytime, pet.”
Alice grabbed his hand and marched off. At the gate, she turned back.
“Mum, don’t fill his head with rubbish about kindness and fairness. The world’s a nasty place.”
After they left, Lydia sat on the bench a long while, wondering where she’d gone wrong. Alice had been an ordinary child—not perfect, but decent. Did average grades, helped round the house. When had it all soured?
Next morning, Max arrived scowling, a scratch on his cheek.
“What happened?” Lydia asked.
“Tommy’s a prat. Scratched me.”
“And why’d he do that?”
“No reason. Just did.”
Lydia wasn’t fooled. Tommy from two doors down was a gentle lad—she knew his parents well.
“Max, truth now. What did you do to Tommy?”
“Nothing much.” He studied his shoes. “Just took his sweets.”
“Took or nicked?”
“…Nicked. But I didn’t hit him!”
“And he didn’t want to share?”
“Nah. Stingy git.”
Lydia exhaled slowly.
“Max, you can’t just take things. If you want sweets, ask nicely or buy your own.”
“Why bother? He’s weaker, so I’m stronger. Mum says the strong one’s always right.”
“Mum’s wrong.”
Max gaped at her. “Mum’s never wrong. She’s grown up.”
“Grown-ups mess up too, love. Even your mum.”
Max chewed this over. “If Mum’s wrong… who’s right?”
“People who don’t bully, 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 Alice, but silence wasn’t an option.
“I try to be. But the real judge is your conscience. That little voice that tells you what’s fair.”
“What’s a conscience?”
“The bit inside that nudges you when you’ve done wrong. When you took Tommy’s sweets—didn’t you feel anything?”
Max scowled. “Yeah. But Mum says that’s daft.”
“And what do you think?”
“Dunno,” he admitted.
So Lydia told him a story—a tale of a gentle giant who defended the weak. Max listened, even asked questions. For once, he seemed curious.
Later, they spotted Tommy by the sandpit. The boy ducked behind his mum at the sight of Max.
“Max,” Lydia murmured, “maybe apologise to Tommy?”
He squirmed. “Why?”
“Because you hurt him.”
“But he’s weaker.”
“All the more reason.”
After a long pause, Max shuffled over.
“Sorry I nicked your sweets,” he mumbled.
Tommy blinked. “S’alright.”
“Wanna play?”
“Okay.”
They dashed off, soon elbow-deep in sandcastles. Lydia’s heart felt lighter than it had in months.
Alice showed up that evening in a fouler mood than usual.
“Mum, what nonsense have you been filling Max’s head with?” she snapped the moment she stepped in.
“Pardon?”
“Tommy’s mum rang. Said Max apologised for taking his sweets. What for? Kids nick things all the time!”
“For bullying, Alice.”
“Oh, don’t be dramatic! You’re turning him into a doormat!”
“I’m teaching him decency.”
Alice laughed harshly. “Decency? Wake up, Mum. Nice guys finish last.”
“Why d’you say that?”
“Because the world’s brutal! Because soft targets get crushed! Because if you don’t fight, you lose!”
Lydia searched her daughter’s face—the exhaustion, the resentment, the hurt lurking beneath.
“Alice, love… who broke your heart?”
Alice turned to the window. “No one. Life did.”
“Taught you what?”
“That kindness is weakness. That good people get used. That you’ve got to put yourself first.”
“And you want Max to grow up like that?”
“I want him to survive.”
Lydia pulled her into a hug. Alice stiffened, then suddenly crumpled.
“I’m just… so tired, Mum. Tired of fighting, of proving I’m worth anything. My boss belittles me, colleagues stab me in the back. Max’s dad walked out when I got pregnant. Friends vanished when I needed help.”
“And you think everyone’s rotten?”
“Aren’t they?”
“Not all, sweetheart. You’ve just forgotten how to spot the good ones.”
Alice wiped her eyes. “I won’t let Max learn the hard way like I did. Better tough than sorry.”
“Or—hear me out—kind but not naïve? Helpful but not a mug?”
“How?”
“Teach him to read people. Explain that kindness takes strength. That real courage means standing up without knocking others down.”
Alice fell quiet.
“You really think that’s possible?”
“Look at Max today. He apologised, made up with Tommy. Did that make him weak?”
“No. Tommy’d probably take a bullet for him now.”
“Exactly. Kindness breeds kindness. Meanness just leaves you lonely.”
Max had been quietly stacking blocks in the corner, but his ears were clearly pricked.
