My Grandma Raised Me, But Now My Parents Have Decided I Owe Them Child Support

Author Harlan CovingtonReading 3 minViews 1

My grandmother raised me, but now my parents have decided I should pay them maintenance.

My parents live in Surrey, while I reside in Yorkshire. We havent seen each other in over twenty years. Both are artists who sing in a choir, and their lives have been spent travelling from gig to gig. When I turned five, I went to live with my grandmother. She wanted a simpler life with a child and therefore moved to stay with relatives up in Yorkshire.

At first, James and Elizabeth visited us two or three times a year, but their visits grew rarer until they stopped altogether. Eventually I stopped thinking about them, and our contact broke off. While I was studying dentistry, I married in my third year.

Now, together with my husband Thomas, we run our own dental practice and earn a good living. A year ago my father and mother resurfaced. They started calling the clinic because they didnt even have my phone number. Their conversations consisted mainly of complaints about how miserable their lives were.

I listened to all their grievances and reminded them that they had chosen this path when they handed their daughter over to my grandmothers care. Occasionally they sent a few pennies to my grandmother, but for the most part she and I survived on her pension. She would repeat that truth to me, and I understood it, because we both had to scrimp and save.

At school I performed well so I would have something to live on and proper clothes to wear, and I took night shifts as a hospital helper. Today I feel I have my own life, and my parents have theirs; let each person walk their own road.

When James and Elizabeth realised I wasnt going to support them financially, they threatened to sue for maintenance. Their words finally pushed me further away. If I ever doubted the righteousness of my decision or still entertained the idea of helping them, that moment erased any lingering thoughts.

Is it right for me to stand firm, or ought I to help my parents after all? Perhaps the answer lies in the simple truth that love sometimes means letting go and trusting that each of us must walk our own path.

THE MYSTERIOUS NEW NEIGHBOURS A new couple moved into Flat 222 at Number 8, Byron Street. Middle-aged, maybe in their early fifties, both quite short and slender. He sports a beard and a grey coat; she often wears a long skirt and a colourful beret. They’re polite—always smiling in the lift and holding the door open, especially if someone’s carrying heavy shopping. And, which matters with these modern flats: they’re quiet. At least, that’s how it seemed at first. But after about two weeks, the Smiths from 221 and the Harrisons from 223 started to hear their new neighbours rather distinctly. It soon became the main topic of conversation at family dinner. Here’s what the Smiths—both in their forties and married half their lives—had to say: “Have you seen our new neighbours?” “Yes, we rode together in the lift yesterday.” “What do you think?” “They seem normal enough. Why?” “They’re… very affectionate.” “In what way?” “Well, during the day when everyone’s out, it gets quiet, and you can hear everything. They’ve been playing… erm, adult games. For three days in a row now. Very inventive, too. Like something out of a film.” “Seriously?” “Yes, and with a real sense of drama. It’s amusing until it gets distracting. Honestly, it makes working from home tricky.” “Oh, don’t be a prude; good on them—living it up at their age.” ‘Not like us,’ he thought but dared not say. At the weekend, even Mr Smith found himself an unwilling audience to a “classic” gardener-and-lady-of-the-house scene. Both blushed furiously. ***** As for the Harrisons, the youngest couple on the floor—nearly thirty, five years married, expecting their first child: “Did you see the new couple?” “Yeah, bumped into them in the corridor. Why?” “They’re interesting. She cooks him restaurant-worthy meals, and he showers her with gifts—never a day goes by without one.” “How do you know?” “I go for walks daily, and their kitchen smells divine. I even bumped into him with flowers and a gift bag once, dashing home like it was a date.” “Hmm.” “Maybe they’re not married at all—just lovers?” “No idea, but they definitely live together.” “And they’re always chatting in the kitchen, giggling and laughing if you listen quietly. Just like newlyweds.” “I get it. News is on—I’ll be in the lounge.” That Friday, Mr Harrison ran into the neighbour by the lift—clutching roses, a bottle of red, and looking hopeful for the evening. ***** A month passed. The mysterious neighbours of 222 were firmly established. The Smiths had grown used to the sounds from next door. The couple next door still hadn’t tired of one another; every day something new, or at least sweet sighs and creaking beds. As if they were in a hurry to savour every moment together. One night, Mrs Smith, eyes averted, confessed: “I stopped by the lingerie shop at the centre today—look at what I bought.” She flung open her robe. Mr Smith’s eyes sparkled. “Well,” he said, “I popped into an adult shop the other day—got this. Don’t know if you’ll like it.” “You never know until you try,” she blushed. ***** “Process is underway,” whispered the man in 222, eavesdropping on the Smiths through the wall. ***** Mr Harrison decided to visit the jeweller at lunch—he hadn’t treated his wife in ages. Once, he always had a treat for her tucked in his bag, even if only her favourite chocolate. He spotted his wife in her familiar coat. “Rachel! What are you doing here? This is miles from home.” “Just fancied a walk,” she faltered. “You?” “Got you these earrings. Here—couldn’t resist.” Rachel beamed, kissing him. “Thank you, love! I’m making carbonara with prawns tonight. Remember when I used to make that? They have the best prawns here.” “Mmm, my mouth’s watering just thinking about it.” “Don’t be late; I’ll have it ready by seven.” “Of course,” thought Mr Harrison, ‘better stop for flowers.’ ***** “What’s the update?” asked the man from 222. “She’s cooking something special and they’re off and running,” smiled his wife. ***** A month later, the Smiths were unrecognisable—ten years younger, always catching each other’s eye, just waiting for a moment alone together. Sometimes they’d even sneak away from the kids for a hotel night, relishing every second. Shared interests sprouted, and everything seemed easier. ***** Meanwhile, with the Harrisons about to welcome their first child, they’d rediscovered date nights: cinema, restaurants, art galleries. Rachel had dug out her old recipe book, and every week, Mr Harrison spoiled her with gifts or slipped a favourite chocolate into her bag. He couldn’t remember the last time he watched the news. ***** “So, how are they?” asked the woman from 222. “They’re good—quiet creaks now, must be the kids at home. But everything’s far livelier—I listen in all the time, just to make sure.” “And the other couple?” “They’re happily nest-building, laughing in the kitchen, delicious smells drifting down the hall.” “Brilliant! All done in three months. We’ll stay a few more weeks to seal the results.” “Alright. Who’s next?” “Simmons, Flat 65, Number 4. Next door in 66, a couple overrun by routine—forgotten each other’s names. And the lot in 64—bedroom blues, as usual.” “Understood. I’ll leave your tapes for now, keep things lively. No need to cancel the restaurant deliveries either. There’s still plenty of scented oil left. Oh, and those roses you swapped water for all week—completely wilted. You’ll have to buy a new bouquet.” “Will do. Rub my back, would you? Then let’s get some sleep…”

00

My Husband Was Supporting His Ex with Our Money – So I Gave Him an Ultimatum From the very beginning, I knew about his ex. He was always honest that he’d been married before, that he had a daughter, and that he paid child support. I even thought it was the right thing—admirable, really. I respected him for that responsibility. But eventually, I started to see something far more troubling: what I thought was responsibility was actually a painful, never-ending sense of guilt. Chronic, exhausting, obsessive. A guilt that hung over him like an invisible cloud… and someone skillfully took advantage of it. Child support arrived religiously, the amounts were reasonable. But besides that, there was a whole world of “additional expenses.” She needed a new laptop for school—the old one was slow, and all the kids had something better. My husband sighed… and bought it. She needed to go to a language camp. Without it, she’d fall behind. Again, my husband agreed, even though the cost was the same as our whole summer holiday. Gifts for Christmas, for her birthday, for Mother’s Day, for “just because”… everything had to be the best, the most expensive, the flashiest. Because “Dad has to be the good guy.” His ex-wife knew exactly what to say. She’d call with that slightly suffering tone: “She’ll be upset… you understand? I can’t handle this on my own.” And he always understood. He understood so strongly, he stopped seeing reality—the reality where he lived with me. Where we had plans, dreams, and a future. But the money for our future kept dripping away, drop by drop, poured into a past that clung on and wouldn’t let go. I tried talking to him. “Don’t you think it’s gone too far? She has everything. We haven’t been able to buy a new washing machine for two months. Wake up…” He looked guilt-ridden and said, “She’s a child… I can’t say no. They tell me it’s a tough age. I have to support her.” “And what about my self-worth? Our life?” I asked, more sharply. He looked confused. “Are you jealous? Of a child?” It wasn’t jealousy. It was fairness. We lived in disaster mode—always funding someone else’s “urgent need” that never ended. Our washing machine was on its last legs—rumbling, bouncing, stopping mid-cycle. I dreamed of a normal, quiet machine. I’d saved up from my wages and found one on sale. The day was set. That morning, my husband was strangely silent. Wandering the flat, looking for something on the floor. Just as I grabbed my purse, he said, “I… took the money… for the washing machine.” My fingers went cold. “Took? Where?” “For my daughter. It’s urgent… dental treatment. My ex called last night, in a panic… said the child was in agony, needed a private dentist immediately, and it was expensive… I couldn’t say no…” I leaned against the doorway. “And… did she get treated?” “Yes! Yes!” he brightened, as if the worst was past. “Everything went perfectly. They said it was excellent.” I looked at him for a few seconds… and quietly said, “Call her right now.” “What? Why?” “Call. And ask how your daughter is… and which tooth hurt.” He frowned but dialed. Spoke briefly. And as he listened, I saw his face change—from confidence to discomfort. Hung up. “Well… she’s fine now. Pain’s gone.” “Which tooth?” I repeated. “It doesn’t matter…” “WHICH TOOTH?” My voice came out harsh, almost unrecognizable. He sighed. “They said… it wasn’t pain. It was planned. Whitening. She’s old enough. She’d been waiting a year…” At that moment, I just turned and sat down on the kitchen chair. The money for our normal life… had gone for teeth whitening because someone decided it was necessary. And the worst part? He hadn’t even questioned it. He didn’t check. He just took our money and handed it over. Because guilt is a terrible adviser… but a wonderful tool for emotional blackmail. After that, there was an icy silence at home. I barely spoke to him. He tried to “make up” with small gestures, but it was like dressing a deep wound with an ordinary plaster. I realised—I wasn’t fighting his ex-wife. I was fighting a ghost he carried inside. The ghost of a failed marriage. The troubled feeling that he “didn’t do enough.” That he “had to make up for it.” And this ghost was hungry. Constantly wanting new sacrifices—money, time, nerves, humiliation. The final straw was his daughter’s birthday. I pushed myself and bought a beautiful, quality, but modest book—the same one she’d mentioned in passing. The big presents were from “Mum and Dad”: a new phone, like the richest kids in the class had. His ex was dressed for a magazine shoot. Hosted like a queen. Smiled sweetly… but was dangerous. When it was time for presents, and his daughter picked up my book, she said loudly, smiling to the room: “See, darling… those who really love you give you what you dream of.” And pointed to the flashy gift. “And this…”—nodding dismissively at my book—“is just from ‘some lady.’ Just ticking a box.” The room froze. Everyone looked at me. Then at my husband. And he… said nothing. Didn’t defend me. Didn’t correct her. Didn’t do a thing. Looking at the floor. At his plate. Deep inside himself. Shrunk, stooped, almost hoping to disappear. His silence was louder than a slap. It was agreement. I survived the party with a stone face. Smiled, nodded… but inside, it was all over. Not a crisis. Not “the end.” Just the end. When we got home, I didn’t make a scene. Scenes are for people still fighting. I went to the bedroom, pulled out the old dusty suitcase—the one my husband brought when he moved in. And I began packing his things. Slowly. Methodically. No trembling. Shirts. Trousers. Socks. Neatly folded. He heard the noise, came in, and when he saw the suitcase… he froze. “What are you doing?” “Helping you pack,” I said calmly. “What? Where to? What’s all this? Because of today? She’s always like that…” “It’s not because of her,” I interrupted. “It’s because of you.” I put in the last shirt. “You live in the past. Every pound you earn, every thought, every silence—it’s all for back then. But I live in the present. The present where there’s no money for a washing machine because it went on tooth whitening for someone else’s whim. The present where I’m publicly insulted, and my husband stares at the floor.” I zipped up the suitcase. Stood it up. And looked him in the eyes. “Go. Go to her. Help her with everything. With teeth, tutors, her endless dramas and manipulations. Make up for your guilt, if you must. But do it there, not here. Set this place free.” “What place?” “The place for a husband in my life. It’s already taken. Taken by the ghost of another woman. And I’m tired of sharing my bed, my money, and my future with him.” I carried the suitcase to the front door and left it there. He took it… and left. I didn’t look back at the door. For the first time in ages, I felt the air was mine. My home was mine. My soul, at last, had space for itself. Two months later, our marriage was officially over.

00

“We’ll Stay Here Until Summer!”: How I Kicked Out My Husband’s Cheeky Family, Changed the Locks, and Reclaimed My Home The intercom didn’t just ring—it wailed, demanding attention. I glanced at the clock: seven a.m. Saturday. My only day to catch up on sleep after that brutal quarterly report, and the last day I wanted to play hostess. On the screen: my sister-in-law, Sarah. She looked like she was about to storm the Tower of London, and behind her loomed three varying sizes of scruffy heads. “Ian!” I yelled, not picking up. “Your family. Handle them.” My husband stumbled from the bedroom, shorts on backwards. He knew, from my tone, my patience for his clan was buried somewhere in the Thames. … My flat—my rules. I’d bought this three-bed in central London two years before we even married, paying off the mortgage with the sweat of my brow. The absolute last thing I wanted was uninvited guests. The door burst open, flooding my meticulously designed and delicately scented hallway with mayhem. Sarah, laden with bags, didn’t bother saying hello. She just shuffled me aside like I was a side table. “Oh, thank goodness, we made it!” she exhaled, dumping bags onto my Italian tile. “Ali, why are you blocking the door? Kettle on, the kids are starving after that drive.” “Sarah,” my voice was cold, and Ian’s posture said he already knew what awaited him later. “What’s going on?” … The “one week” squatted into three. My once-immaculate flat, which I’d designed with an interior architect, became a barnyard—muddy shoes everywhere, sticky countertops, general chaos. … But the last straw wasn’t that. Arriving home early, I found my nephews bouncing on my £2,000 memory foam bed and my niece drawing a mural—with my Tom Ford lipstick—on the bedroom wall. … That night, Sarah wandered off to the shower, leaving her phone on the kitchen table. A text flashed up: “Sarah, payment for next month sent. Tenants ask if they can stay until August?” followed by a bank transfer of £800. It hit me. There was no renovation—Sarah had rented her own flat out for extra cash and moved into mine on a free ride. Groceries, utilities, and a passive income—genius, if you’ve no shame. … With my husband made aware and given a choice—his freeloading family or both of them gone by noon—I set a plan in motion during a rare window when the flat was empty. Locksmith, police, bags packed, evidence ready. When Sarah returned, arms full of Selfridges bags and attitude, she found all her belongings on the landing. The police officer confirmed: no right to be here. The game was up. She collected her stuff, shrieking, and departed. … Ian crept back—alone and apologetic. I laid down the law: one more family scheme, and he’d be following his sister out the door. … Finally, I sipped a perfect, hot coffee, in silence, in my own undisturbed flat. Crowns don’t chafe—when they’re well earned. (Adapted for a British audience and culture, names and settings changed, all original plot points and detail maintained.)

05

“Your Wife Has Really Gotten Out of Line—You Need to Teach Her How to Behave,” Lectured Max’s Mum at the Housewarming Party Marina had planned a romantic weekend, but when Max’s mum, Nina, asked for help hosting her housewarming, Marina set everything aside to prepare canapés for thirty guests, a Caesar salad, a meat platter, a fruit arrangement, decorate the room, and rearrange furniture. The Friday night shopping trip replaced Marina’s dinner date with Max; early Saturday morning, she began cooking in her mother-in-law’s new flat. When guests arrived, Nina proudly claimed credit for her “well-raised, reliable daughter-in-law,” who spent the evening serving food, pouring champagne, and tidying up—without even having a chair at the table. The guests praised Marina’s skills, and Max beamed, proud to have such a “domestic” wife. The conversation turned to Max’s university conquests and former girlfriends, with Nina boasting about her son’s charm and remarking that “men must have experience.” Marina felt invisible, washing grapes in the kitchen while her own life was discussed as if she wasn’t there. Eventually, the talk shifted to babies, and Nina lamented that Marina hadn’t yet given her grandchildren—a sore subject for Marina, who had struggled for months and faced constant prying questions. As the party wore on, Nina and the guests debated the “rights” of wives: “A woman’s happiness is family and children,” “The main thing is the husband’s wellbeing,” “A good wife is quiet and accommodating.” Marina, exhausted, realized she was seen more as a servant than a partner. When Marina questioned why only men deserved to “rest,” since she, too, worked full-time but also carried the domestic load, the group fell silent, and Nina accused her of “spoiling the party.” Marina finally spoke her truth: “I’m tired of being convenient. I’m not just someone who organizes your housewarming and brings the snacks—I’m a person who deserves respect.” She left the room in tears, seeking solace on the balcony. Despite Nina’s complaints, Max quietly admitted Marina wasn’t completely wrong. When the dust settled, Marina set firm boundaries: “Either things change, or I change my life.” A week later, Max visited Marina at her parents’ home. He pleaded for her to return, promising things would be different. Marina agreed, having finally learned to claim her right to be respected—and never again cried during a family celebration.

036

“We’ll Stay Here Until Summer!”: How I Kicked Out My Husband’s Brazen Family, Changed the Locks, and Took Back My London Flat The door buzzer didn’t just ring—it howled, demanding attention. I glanced at the clock: 7 a.m. on a Saturday. The only morning I’d planned to sleep in after closing the quarterly accounts, not play hostess. My sister-in-law Sarah’s face flashed on the entry screen, looking ready to storm Parliament rather than visit family, with three scruffy-haired kids bristling at her side. “Ian!” I barked without picking up. “Your lot. Sort it out.” He tumbled out of bed, pulling on shorts backwards, knowing from my tone that my patience with his family had expired. As he stumbled over some excuse into the intercom, I stood braced in the hallway, arms crossed. My flat—my rules. I’d bought this three-bed in Central London two years before the wedding, sweating over every mortgage payment. Seeing interlopers ruin it was the last thing I wanted. The door flung open, and a caravan poured into my pristine, scented hallway. Sarah, laden with bags, didn’t bother with a greeting—just shunted me aside like a coat rack. “Oh, thank god we made it!” she puffed, dumping her bags onto the designer tiling. “Alison, are you rooted to the spot? Stick the kettle on, the kids are starving.” “Sarah,” my voice was level, though Ian shrank beside me, knowing what was coming. “What’s going on?” “Ian didn’t explain?”—she widened her eyes, all innocence—“Our place is being gutted—plumbing, floors—the dust is unbearable. We’re just crashing here for a week. Loads of room in all these empty square metres, right?” I shot Ian a look; he did a thorough inspection of the ceiling instead of answering. “A week,” I declared. “Seven days, not more. You sort your own food. Kids don’t run around, don’t touch the walls, my office is out of bounds, and I want silence after ten.” Sarah rolled her eyes. “God, Alison, you’re such a warden. All right, deal. Where are we sleeping? Not on the floor, I hope?” And so the nightmare began. A “week” became two, then three. My designer flat was morphing into a pigsty: a heap of muddy shoes in the hallway, sticky puddles and greasy splatters in my shiny kitchen, and Sarah reigning not as guest but queen. “Nothing to eat, Alison?” she whined one evening, surveying the empty fridge. “The kids need yoghurt, and Ian and I fancy some proper meat. Surely you can look after family with your income.” “You’ve got a bank card, you know where Tesco is,” I replied, not looking up from my laptop. “Sainsbury’s delivers 24/7.” “Stingy,” she muttered, slamming the fridge hard enough to rattle jars. “You can’t take money with you when you go, remember that.” But the last straw was still to come. One evening, arriving home early, I found my nephew bouncing on my thousand-quid orthopaedic mattress, while Sarah’s youngest daughter was busy turning my bedroom wall into a lipstick mural. With my Tom Ford. Limited edition. “OUT!” I roared—and the children scattered. Sarah burst in, surveyed the damage, and clapped her hands dismissively. “Why are you fussing? They’re just kids! It’s only a scribble. You’ll wash it off. And your lipstick—what is it, painted lard? Just buy another! Actually, we’ve been thinking. Builders are useless, so we’ll stay until the summer. You two must get lonely, don’t you? It’s much livelier with us!” Ian stayed silent. Spineless. I needed air to keep from committing a crime. Later, when Sarah went for a shower, she’d left her phone on the kitchen table. I’m no snoop, but a message popped up loud and clear from “Mandy Lettings”: “Sarah, sent the rent for next month. Tenants are happy, can they extend until August?” Followed by a bank notification: “£800 received.” Suddenly, it all clicked. No renovations, just a cheeky scheme—Sarah had sublet her own flat short-term and come here to freeload off me, pocketing the profits and letting me bankroll her family and her savings. My hands were steady, colder than calm. I took a photo of her screen. “Ian, come to the kitchen.” He paled after reading the message. “Maybe it’s a mistake?” he tried. “No, the only mistake is you still haven’t kicked them out,” I said. “You have a choice: by tomorrow lunchtime, either your family is gone or you all are. You, your mummy, your darling sister, and the whole circus.” “But where will they go?” “I don’t care. Under a bridge or to The Ritz—if their rental money stretches that far.” The next morning, Sarah cheerily announced she’d be “popping to Selfridges for some lovely boots,” leaving the kids with Ian. I waited for the door to shut behind her. “Ian, take the kids out—to the park. For a long time.” “Why?” “Because I’m about to fumigate the flat.” As soon as the lift doors closed behind them, I called the locksmith, and then our local police support officer. Hospitality was over. It was eviction day. Yesterday’s “maybe it’s a mistake?” echoed in my ears as the locksmith swapped the lock for a brute of a security mechanism. “No one’s getting in without a grinder now, love,” he approved. “Perfect. That’s what I want.” Generous tip, the price of a decent dinner out, but peace was priceless. Then I started gathering stuff. Black bin bags—industrial-sized, 120 litres. I scooped up everything: Sarah’s bras, kids’ tights, toys, make-up spilling off my bathroom shelves. No folded piles, just shovelled in. In 40 minutes, a mountain of bags stood outside my front door. Two battered suitcases joined. The police officer, a tired-looking young man, arrived just as I finished. “Good morning, officer,” I handed him my ID and flat ownership papers. “I’m the sole owner and resident. Some people are about to try to get in—relatives with no tenancy or legal claim. Please record any attempted break-in.” “Relatives?” “Ex-relatives,” I grinned. “We have a family property dispute. It’s just got spicy.” Sarah arrived an hour later, radiant with Selfridges bags. Her smile vanished at the sight of the bin-bag pile and police escort. “What’s this? Alison, are you mental? These are my things!” “Exactly. Your things. Take them and go. Hotel’s closed.” She lunged for the door but the officer blocked her. “Do you live here? Registered resident?” “I’m—Ian’s sister! We’re guests!” she turned to me, face flushed. “Where’s Ian? I’ll call him—just you wait!” “Go ahead. He won’t answer. He’s explaining to your kids why their mum’s so entrepreneurial.” No answer from Ian. Maybe finally he’d grown a spine—or was just scared about losing his share of the flat in a divorce he’d never win. “You can’t do this!” Sarah shrieked, dumping her new shoes on the ground. “We have nowhere to go! What about my kids?” “Stop lying. Say hi to Mandy from Lettings. See if the tenants want to stay till August or if you’ll need to kick them out.” Sarah’s face drained of colour. “How did you—?” “Next time, lock your phone, boss lady. You squatted here for a month on my food and wrecked my home while letting your own out for profit. Well done—very enterprising. But here’s my advice: take your stuff and leave. If you or your brood come within a mile of my flat again, I’ll notify HMRC about your little untaxed rental empire. And the police, too—my gold ring’s gone missing and you’d be amazed what they might find if they search those bags.” The ring, of course, was locked in my safe—but she didn’t know that. Sarah went ashen, foundation masking her panic. “You’re a cow, Alison,” she spat. “God will judge you.” “God’s busy,” I snapped. “But I’m free. And so is my flat.” She staggered off, cursing and fumbling for a taxi, while the officer watched with mild amusement. When the lift swallowed her, her bags, and her big scheme, I turned to the officer. “Thanks for your help.” “Always here—though a strong lock is your best bet next time.” I closed the door. The new lock clicked—loud, secure, satisfying. The flat, now fresh and quiet, carried the citrus tang of professional cleaning. Ian returned two hours later—alone. He’d handed the kids off to Sarah outside, who was still struggling with her luggage and her pride. “She’s gone,” he muttered. “I know.” “She was shouting all sorts about you—” “I don’t care what rats scream as they’re chucked off a ship.” I sat back in my spotless kitchen, sipping fresh coffee from my favourite, unbroken cup. The fridge held only my food. No lipstick drawings left—just clean walls. “Did you know she was letting her flat?” I asked, not looking at him. “No! Honestly, Alison! If I had—” “If you had, you wouldn’t have told me. Listen: this is your one and only warning. Next time your family tries anything, your suitcases will be outside with theirs. Got it?” He nodded, anxious and wary. He knew I meant it. I took a long sip of coffee. Hot, strong, and above all, drunk in perfect silence, in my own home. My crown felt just right.

08

📌 Useful Social Services & Contacts in the U.S.

Stay informed and get help when you need it. Below are key national services with direct contacts that may support you or your loved ones:
🏥 Health & Mental Support

SAMHSA – Substance Abuse and Mental Health Services Administration

What they do: Free and confidential help with substance use and mental health disorders.

Hotline: 1-800-662-HELP (4357) – 24/7, anonymous support

Website: samhsa.gov

🧒 Support for Children & Families

WIC – Women, Infants, and Children Program

What they do: Nutritional and healthcare support for pregnant women, new mothers, and young children.

Federal Info Line: 1-800-522-5006

Find local WIC office: fns.usda.gov/wic

My Grandma Raised Me, But Now My Parents Have Decided I Owe Them Child Support