Abandoned but Not Alone: How My Grandmother Has Been Like a Parent to Me for 26 Years
Parents Who Exist, But Aren’t There It wouldn’t be fair to say I don’t have a family. My father and mother are alive, living their lives somewhere far away. They’re probably happy, building careers, traveling, and maybe they even love each other. Perhaps they cheat or maybe they just tolerate each other out of habit. I don’t really know.
I only know one thing—ever since I can remember, it’s just been my grandmother and me.
Everyone knows her as Mary Smith, but to me, she’s simply Grandma Mary.
She took me in when I was just six months old. My mum stopped breastfeeding, and from that point on, Grandma took care of me. I’m now 26, and she’s still right by my side.
To say I love her would be an understatement. She’s not just my family; she’s my friend, my advisor, my one true companion. I can sit in the kitchen with her until late at night, smoking in silence, talking about everything or nothing, and sometimes just pouring myself a drink when life feels unbearable.
Grandma is the one thing I’m grateful to fate for.
She Taught Me Everything Grandma Mary never pampered me, but she wasn’t strict either. She knew I needed to learn how to survive on my own.
She taught me how to sew buttons, mend socks, and hem jeans. I can make soups, bake pies, fry potatoes, and even cook meals on a gas stove when the electricity goes out.
She taught me not to complain. If it’s cold, then it’s time to bundle up. If there isn’t money, it’s time to find a solution. If someone leaves your life, they weren’t meant for you.
But most of all, she taught me to love books.
Every holiday—be it a birthday, Christmas, or just a good day—she gifted me a book. Over time, I gathered a whole bookshelf, and although today everyone reads e-books, I still love the smell of paper. It’s the scent of the real, living world.
Grandma taught me how a home should smell.
A real home smells of freshly baked bread, milk, and cinnamon.
A real home is where someone is waiting for you.
My friends would come home after school to empty houses, eating cold food from the fridge and doing homework alone. But I came home to warmth, with hot soup on the stove and Grandma waiting by the window for me.
I am grateful for this.
My Dream I’ve always had one dream—opening my own little bookshop.
I see it all in detail: wooden shelves, cozy chairs, the aroma of coffee and freshly baked goods. People will come in, sit down, browse through books, and sip tea or cocoa.
I’ll set up a few tables and serve delicious pies made from Grandma’s recipes.
I know I will succeed.
Because Grandma always told me, “The key is to do everything with heart.”
She’s happy that I graduated from university and found a good job. I’m a teacher—I give children knowledge, but I have dreams beyond that.
Grandma wants to see me married with children. She wants to cradle great-grandchildren, just like she once did with me.
But first comes my dream.
I haven’t mentioned it to Grandma yet, but I found out recently that my father sold the family land, took his share and didn’t give me a penny.
But his brother, my uncle—a man with golden hands—has promised to help. He wants to invest in my bookshop, help with renovations and furniture.
Grandma has always treated him like a son. Maybe that’s why he agreed to help me.
I want to make her proud.
I want her to boast about me.
To be able to walk into my bookshop and say, “My grandson made this.”
