Raised by My Grandmother: Grateful for Her Care, But Her Love Came with Strings Attached

Author Wanda MirandaReading 4 minViews 1

I was raised by my grandmother, and while Im grateful for all she did, her love was never free of strings.

I was only five when my dear old dad decided hed had enough of family life. He left us for his mistress, who was younger than Mum by quite a stretch. At the time, we were living in his London flat, but almost as soon as the divorce was final, he insisted that Mum and I pack up and leave.

With nothing but what little we owned, we moved in with Granny, Mums mother, in her little house in Birmingham. Dad, in his infinite courage, found all sorts of clever ways to get out of paying child support. The long and short of it: Mum and I didnt have two pennies to rub together and ended up depending on Grannys meagre state pension. Mum was always away working shifts, and I had to come home from school and take care of the house.

As I got older, I sometimes skipped school, taking odd jobs on building sites. Schoolwork hardly stood a chance. I felt sorry for Mum and Granny, scraping by on what little we had. I made up my mind that after year eleven, Id leave school for good and get a proper job to help them out. But then Grannys sister, Great Aunt Edith, turned up with an unexpected offer. Shed never had children of her own and wanted me to come and live with her in the suburbs of Manchester. She promised to look after me, help me with my studies, and said shed treat me as her own. Granny and Mum eventually agreed.

So, I moved in with Great Aunt Edith. Mum and Granny popped in to visit now and then, but life was much smoother. Aunt Edith had a decent pension, and I was able to focus on school without worrying about money. She taught me to cookhow to make a proper roast dinnerand even how to sew a button on. I finished my studies with top marks and managed to get into university in Oxford to read law.

Aunt Edith kept saying that as soon as I finished my degree, shed put me in her will and leave me her flat, because, as she said, Id become like her own child. She was all I had. But the universe had other plans, as it always does. In my third year, I met Alice.

Oh, she was something elseclever and striking, the kind of girl you only see once in a dream. She loved me, and I loved her, so I knew I wanted to marry her. But when Aunt Edith found out, she threw an absolute fitaccused Alice of wanting me only for my supposed inheritance, not for love.

She laid it out: if I didnt dump Alice, Id be cut out of her will, no questions asked. I told Alice everything. She offered to let me go if I thought a flat in Manchester was so important, but she also said shed be by my side, even if we had to shack up in a hut, thats how much she cared for me. In the end, I took the leap and chose love. Aunt Edith never spoke to me again. I lost the flat but kept Alice.

Now, as our ten-year anniversary approaches, we have two kids and our love feels deeper and stronger than ever. Each year that passes, Im more certain that I made the right choice.

Marrying a Disabled Man: A Story Thank you for your support, your likes, your interest and your feedback on my stories, for subscribing, and a HUGE thank you from me and my five cats for all your donations. Please share any stories you’ve enjoyed on social media—authors appreciate it! My daughter came home late from her shift at the trauma clinic where she works as a nurse. She took a long shower and then, wearing her dressing gown, came into the kitchen. “There are some pork chops and pasta in the pan,” I suggested, peering at her face to see what was wrong. “Tired, Lucy? Why the glum mood?” “I’m not eating, I look awful enough as it is—if I gain weight, no one will even glance at me,” Lucy replied gloomily, pouring herself some tea. “Nonsense,” I exclaimed. “You’re perfectly fine—your eyes are clever, your nose and lips quite normal—don’t be so hard on yourself, Lucy.” “It’s just that all my friends have long been married, except me! Only the oddest blokes seem to like me. The ones I fall for don’t even notice me. What’s wrong with me, Mum?” she asked, waiting for an answer. “You just haven’t met your fate yet, that’s all—the time will come,” I tried to reassure her, but Lucy only grew more upset. “Right, well, ‘clever eyes’ because they’re tiny, thin lips and just look at my nose! If we had the money, I’d get plastic surgery, but we’re poor! So I’ve decided I’ll marry someone disabled—there are men at the clinic who got dumped by girlfriends after an accident or injury. What else am I supposed to do? I’m thirty-three, I can’t wait any longer!” “Oh, Lucy, don’t say that—your dad’s never been steady on his feet. I’d hoped my son-in-law would help at the allotment—such a big help for us, or how will we manage?” I blurted out, then rushed to backtrack. “Not that you should marry anyone just for that, Lucy, but not everyone is well-off. Why go for someone disabled? Our neighbour Alex is a decent chap, interested in you for ages—strong and healthy, your children would be too, and…” “Mum, please! Alex can’t keep a job, drinks too much, and we have nothing to talk about!” Lucy protested. “You don’t have to talk with him, I’ll send him to dig up the garden with the cultivator, then we can eat, or send him to the shop. He’s a good lad, diligent—maybe something would work out?” I suggested hopefully. But Lucy just pushed away her tea and stood up. “I’m going to bed, Mum. Seriously, I thought you at least thought of me as a real person, but you, like everyone else, think I’m a freak…” “Lucy, darling, how could you think that?” I called after her, but she just waved me off and closed her bedroom door in my face. She lay awake for ages, thinking of the lad who’d recently arrived at the clinic—he lost his leg below the knee. A piece of masonry had crushed it in a derelict house set for demolition—he’d gone in there for some reason and was trapped until they finally got him out, but his leg was beyond saving. No visitors came for him, and he wasn’t yet thirty. At first, he used to hold Lucy’s hand and look at her with wide, pleading eyes straight after surgery. Then, adjusting to his new reality, he’d just gaze silently at the ceiling. She felt more sorry for him than others—maybe because no one came for him. “You think I’ll ever walk again?” he asked her recently, not looking her way. “Of course you will—everything will heal, you’re young!” she replied firmly. “People always say that. Try living with just one leg—what kind of life is that?” he snapped, turning away from her as though it was her fault. “Why did you go in there anyway?” Lucy shot back, angry now. “It’s your own fault!” “Thought I saw something,” he grumbled. Now, whenever she entered, he kept turned away. Lucy studied him—pale, cold blue eyes, but a lovely face. She was sorry for him. “Pity me, don’t you?” he caught her looking one day. “It’s obvious. People like me are only pitied, never loved.” “Nobody loves people like me, either—even though I have arms and legs. I’m just not right—no one even pities me. Maybe it’d be better off if I’d lost a limb too, then at least I’d get sympathy,” Lucy snapped, tears prickling. That made Misha smile at her—really smile—for the first time. “Are you mad? You’re not ugly at all. Honestly, I look at you and can only envy the man you choose, believe it.” Lucy looked at him, and to her surprise, she believed him. She blurted out what had been on her mind: “If I chose you, would you marry me?” He was silent, so she pouted, “Silent means no—you’re just pretending! Got it!” She stood up to leave, annoyed. Misha hauled himself upright with his elbows as if to chase after her, remembered he couldn’t, and called after her: “Marry me, Lucy, I promise you soon no one will even notice my leg. I’ll recover fast—don’t go, Lucy!” Lucy and Misha She stopped in the corridor, on the verge of tears, but at the same time suddenly felt—he’s the one. It didn’t matter if her nose or eyes weren’t “right”, or if he was missing a leg. They’d found each other—that’s all. Her time had come, just like Mum said… Misha threw himself into rehab with passion. He had a new purpose now—to marry his wonderful girl and walk for their future together. He wanted Lucy to smile, to never feel unwanted again. He needed her, badly—he only wanted to share his life with her. “Have you fallen in love at last, darling?” Mum asked slyly soon after. “Look at you—you’re glowing, after telling me you were ugly.” Lucy didn’t even deny it; she floated everywhere on air. Her greatest wish now was for Misha to walk comfortably and get used to his prosthesis. They spent longer and longer out together, first in the clinic yard, then along snow-swept, New Year-lit streets. “They’ve demolished the old house now—right there, that’s where it happened,” Misha showed her once. “So why’d you go in—what did you see? You never told me,” Lucy remembered. “You’ll laugh—I saw a stray puppy in there, skinny, black with white patches, thought I’d take him home. Didn’t want to live alone,” Misha explained. “There’s a dog over there, all ribs and big, scared eyes,” Lucy pointed. “That’s probably him!” Misha grinned, and sure enough, the dog followed them all the way home, keeping his distance. “At least Lucy’s found herself a handsome young husband, and he’s got his own flat and no mother-in-law attached!” friends joked at her wedding. Lucy’s mum even shed a tear when Misha started calling her “Mum”. He was an orphan, no family at all. But a truly warm soul—and above all, they loved each other. May they be happy. Never mind the allotment—life is bigger than vegetables, and Misha does everything anyway and it all works out! Lucy and Misha live together with their dog, Kuzma—soon to be joined by another little one: they’re expecting a daughter. Never lose hope—or you might miss out and never know your chance at happiness. Life truly is wonderful in its unpredictability.

02

“Don’t You Dare Touch My Mum’s Things,” My Husband Said — “Those clothes belong to my mum. Why on earth did you pack them up?” my husband demanded, his voice suddenly so unfamiliar. — “We should just throw them away, Steve. We don’t need them cluttering half the wardrobe! I need the space for winter blankets and spare pillows — you know how everything’s always scattered about.” With brisk determination, Olivia kept pulling her late mother-in-law’s modest cardigans, skirts, and light dresses off their hangers, while Valeria’s things had always been neatly arranged to keep everything tidy — a habit she’d instilled in her son, too. Olivia, on the other hand, was forever lost in the chaos of overflowing wardrobes each morning, sighing about having “nothing to wear” and then frantically steaming out the creases from tops that looked as if they’d been chewed up and spat out by a cow. It had only been three weeks since Steve had said his last goodbye to his mum. Valeria had needed treatment — mostly hopeless by then — and peace. Her cancer was already at stage four and progressing without mercy. Steve had taken her in, but she’d faded away in just a month. Now, coming home from work, he found her clothes tossed in a pile like unwanted rubbish in the middle of the hallway. He felt frozen in shock. Was that it then? Was this how his mother was to be remembered — thrown out and instantly forgotten? — “Why are you staring at me like that, as if you’re the ghost of Christmas past?” Olivia retorted, shifting to the side. — “Don’t you dare touch those things,” Steve hissed through clenched teeth. The blood pounded in his head so fiercely he momentarily couldn’t feel his hands or feet. — “We don’t need that old tat!” Olivia snapped, losing her temper. “What do you want, a museum at home? Your mum’s gone — deal with it! You should’ve cared more while she was alive. Visited more, then you might have realised how ill she was!” Steve flinched at her words, as if she’d lashed him across the face. — “Leave before I do something I’ll regret,” he said, his voice shaking. Olivia snorted: — “Please do. Psycho…” To Olivia, anyone with an opinion different from her own was automatically “mental.” Not bothering to take off his shoes, Steve marched to the hallway wardrobe, flung open the top doors and, balancing on a step-stool, grabbed one of their checkered shopping bags — the ones that had been so handy for their move. He carefully folded all of Valeria’s things into it, not just tossing but folding each into a neat rectangle. Her old coat and a bag of shoes went on top. All the while, their three-year-old son toddled round, helping Daddy — even dropped his toy tractor into the bag to keep Grandma company. When Steve was done, he rummaged through the drawer, found the keys, and slipped them in his pocket. — “Daddy, where are you going?” Steve gave a sad smile, hand on the door. — “I’ll be back soon, matey. Go find Mum.” — “Hold on!” Olivia called, appearing in the doorway. “Are you leaving? Where to? What about dinner?” — “I’ve had enough of how you treat my mum’s memory, thanks.” — “Oh, come on, what’s got into you now? Take your coat off. Where are you off to at this time?” With his back to her, Steve stepped out with the bag, started his car, pulled out of the drive, and headed for the M25. He drove, letting the motorway roar drown out his thoughts. Everything else receded — work projects, summer holiday plans, even the funny posts he used to love online. Only one thought crept, slow and heavy, through his mind, eclipsing everything: of all that filled his days, what truly mattered were his kids, his wife… and his mum. He blamed himself for her death — for not noticing, not making time, for always being too busy. She’d never wanted to be a burden, so he visited less, called less. Now it was too late. He made a brief pit stop at a roadside café for a snack, then drove the next three hours without a break. Only the sunset distracted him for a moment: a burst of crimson split the grey sky as if the sun clung desperately to the edge of the world. It was full dark when he arrived at his childhood village, shuffling along unpaved lanes until he pulled up outside his childhood home. Artist: Shaun Ferguson He couldn’t see anything in the gloom. Fumbling with the gate, using his phone for light — five missed calls from his wife, no, he couldn’t talk to anyone now. The air was sweet and heavy with blossom, attracting night moths. The chalk-white flowers glimmered ghostly in the dark. The old windows mirrored the night sky. Steve let himself in, feeling his way to the light switch in the hall. His mum’s gardening slippers waited by the door. By the inner door, her blue house shoes, worn out, with two red bunnies by the toe. Steve had bought them for her eight years ago. He paused, stared, shook his head, and opened the next door. Hello, Mum. Have you been waiting? No, no one waited for him in this house anymore. Inside, it smelled of old furniture and damp, musty as if the cellar breathed up from below. The house needed constant heating to keep off the mould. Her hairbrush and little collection of cosmetics still sat on the dresser; near the door, a see-through bag marked “Value” brimmed with pasta. The only new thing in the lounge was the sofa and telly he’d bought her. The fridge was open, a reminder no one lived here now. In her room — her side of the bed piled high with neatly covered pillows. Steve sat on the edge. This had once been his room, with a brother sharing the other bed, desk by the window. Now, a sewing machine stood in its place — Mum had loved her sewing. The second bed replaced by a wardrobe for her things. He sat in perfect silence, staring at the wardrobe as if a ghost might step out. His eyes glazed. He cupped his head in his hands, bent double, and sobbed into his knees. He wept for never having replied when she squeezed his hand that last day. He’d sat, numb, mute, seeing her fade, swallowing all the words he’d never say. “Don’t,” she whispered, “don’t look at me like that… I was happy with you.” And he’d so badly wanted to thank her for his carefree childhood, for every sacrifice, every bit of love, for the safe home she’d built — a place to return, no matter how badly you’d messed up. But he’d sat speechless, unable to find the words. Sometimes, all you can think of sounds so stilted, so old-fashioned, you’re embarrassed even to try. Ours is an age that hasn’t come up with words for real emotion — we’re excellent at cynicism and banter, not much else. He turned off all the lights and fell asleep, fully clothed, careful not to crush the made-up bed. Woke at seven, as always, amazed at his body’s routine. Out to the car for the bag. The birch trees across the lane, fresh in green, stood like spring bridesmaids. Morning sun warmed the branches to life. He stood on the porch a minute: birdsong, crisp air — how lucky to have grown up here and not in some concrete city. A stretch, a deep breath, then back inside to unpack his mum’s things. One by one, he placed them carefully back on the shelves and hangers, her shoes neatly below. When everything was in order, he stepped back to check — was it tidy enough? He half-saw her, floating in those outfits, always smiling that warm, wordless “I love you.” Running a hand along the hanging blouses and dresses, he hugged the row, breathed in the old familiar scent… and just stood there. He had no idea what to do next. Eventually, remembered the present: found his phone. — “Hi, Mr Thompson. I won’t make it in today. Family emergency. Will you manage without me? Thanks.” And a quick message to his wife: “Sorry I lost my temper. I’ll be home tonight. Love you.” Along the garden, flowers crowded the path. Daffodils in full bloom, tulips just opening, and near the gooseberry bushes — lilies of the valley. Strange bouquet… He split it in three: at the cemetery, he’d visit three graves. When he passed the shop, he remembered he hadn’t eaten, bought milk, a bread roll — and a chocolate bar. — “Oh, Steve! You’re back again?” the shopkeeper, Mrs Harris, was surprised. — “Yeah… Came to see Mum,” Steve mumbled, looking away. — “I understand. Want some cheddar? Just in, special delivery. Your mum always bought it.” He blinked — was she having a dig? No, she was just a simple soul. — “No, it’s fine. Well, actually — why not. And you, Mrs H., are you alright?” — “Oh!” she waved it off. She and Valeria had been best friends. “Don’t ask. My Terry’s gone completely off the rails. Always drunk.” Steve ate breakfast right there at the cemetery, laid out the flowers: daffodils, lilies, tulips. Brother, dad, mum. His brother had been first — fell off the roof fixing tiles. Just twenty. Five years later, dad died. Now mum. A bit of chocolate for each, and for mum, a piece of cheddar. He chatted with them in his head. He remembered the mischief he and his brother got up to. How at dawn he’d go fishing with Dad — his cast was wild, cowboy style. And Mum! How she’d belt out “Ste-e-eve! Dinner!” across the whole village — her voice carried for miles, and he’d squirm in front of his mates. Oh, if only she’d call him in now. He touched the temporary cross on his mother’s grave. The earth still fresh, the mound dark in the sun. “Mum… forgive me. I should’ve done more. We lived apart, but why does life feel so empty without you? There’s so much I want to tell you — and you, Dad. You were amazing, the very best parents. Thank you… How did you do it? Me and Olivia — we’re so much worse, so selfish. All I ever think is me, me, my… Thank you for everything. You too, Tom.” Time to go. Steve walked back by the fields, pulling up grass to chew. On the first street, he bumped into Terry, Mrs Harris’s son — drunk already, looking a mess. — “Oi, Stevo! Back again?” Terry slurred. — “Yeah… Visiting the family. You still drinking?” — “Of course. It’s a special day!” — “Oh really? What’s that then?” Terry fished a calendar from his shorts, flicked a page. — “World Turtle Day! See?” he declared wisely. — “Right…” Steve smirked. “Terry, look after your mum. She’s a gem, you know. And she won’t be around forever.” He walked on, leaving Terry baffled. Only after a moment did he call out: — “Yeah, alright… Cheers, Steve.” — “Yeah, take care,” Steve replied, not looking back.

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Marrying a Disabled Man: A Heartfelt Story Thank you all for your support, your likes, your thoughtful comments and reviews, for subscribing, and a MASSIVE thank you from me and my five cats for every donation. Please share any stories you enjoy on social media too—it means a lot to the author! My daughter came home late from the hospital, where she works as a nurse in the A&E. She spent ages in the shower and then shuffled into the kitchen in her dressing gown. “There are meatballs and pasta in the frying pan,” I offered, looking into her face, trying to figure out what was wrong. “Tired, Lucy? What’s up with you tonight?” “I’m not eating. I already look horrible, and if I stuff my face, no one will look twice at me,” muttered Lucy, pouring herself a cup of tea. “Don’t be silly!” I protested. “You’ve got a lovely face, intelligent eyes, a normal nose and lips—don’t talk rubbish, Lucy!” “How can I not? All my friends have been married for ages, and I’ve got no one! The only men who seem interested are total losers. The ones I like don’t give me a second glance. What’s wrong with me, Mum?” Lucy frowned, waiting for an answer. “You simply haven’t met the right person. It’s just not your time yet,” I tried to comfort her, but Lucy only got more upset. “Exactly! My eyes are small, my lips are thin, and look at my nose! If we had money, I’d get plastic surgery, but we’re skint! So I’ve decided I’ll just marry someone disabled—there are blokes at the hospital whose girlfriends dumped them after an accident or injury. What else can I do? I’m thirty-three—no more time to wait!” “Oh, Lucy, don’t say that. Your dad’s not the best with his legs either. I just thought maybe your husband would help out at the allotment—that would be a big help. How else are we supposed to get by?” I blurted out, quickly trying to explain myself: “Don’t get me wrong, Lucy, but not everyone lives like kings. Why do you need a disabled man? Look, there’s Alex from next door—he’s a good lad, been eyeing you up for ages. Strong, would have healthy kids, and—” “Mum, please! That Alex can’t hold down a job, loves a drink, and what would we even talk about?” Lucy rolled her eyes. “Never mind talking! I’ll send him to dig over the garden, then we’ll have lunch, or I’ll get him to pop to the shops. He’s a good boy, hardworking, maybe you two could make it work?” I suggested hopefully, but Lucy just shoved her nearly full cup away and got up. “I’m off to bed, Mum. I thought at least you saw me as a person. Turns out you, like everyone else, just think I’m ugly…” “Lucy, darling, don’t!” I tried to follow her, but Lucy waved me away: “That’s enough, Mum!” She shut the bedroom door right in my face. Lucy lay awake for ages, thinking about a young man they recently brought in—a guy in his late twenties who’d lost his leg below the knee. A wall had pinned his leg in a derelict house due for demolition where he’d gone for some reason. By the time they got him out, it was too late to save his leg. No one visited. At first, he’d held her hand and looked at her pleadingly after the surgery. When the reality sank in, he would just silently stare at the ceiling, more alone than any other patient, maybe because no one came for him. “Do you think I’ll be able to walk?” he asked her the other day, not meeting her eyes. Lucy answered firmly and confidently, “Of course you will. You’re young—everything will heal.” “Everyone says that. I’d like to see you live with one leg—what kind of life is that?” he snapped, turning to face the wall, as if it was her fault. “Why did you go in there anyway?” she retorted, suddenly annoyed. “It’s your own fault!” “I thought I saw something,” he barely muttered. After that, whenever she walked in, he’d turn away. Lucy looked him over: icy blue eyes, but a kind face. It was a real shame what had happened to him… “Are you pitying me?” he caught her staring once. “I can see it—you pity me. That’s all people like me get now. No one will ever love me.” “No one loves me either, even though I’ve got all my limbs—because I’m not pretty enough! No one even bothers to pity me. Maybe I’d get more sympathy if I lost a leg,” Lucy shot back, on the brink of tears. For the first time, Misha smiled at her, looking right into her eyes. “You’re daft! Not pretty? Are you having a laugh? I’d give anything for the man you pick to be me, you know that?” Lucy stared at him, and the strangest thing was—she really believed him. Suddenly, she blurted out what had been on her mind for days: “What if I pick you, Misha? Will you marry me? Or are you just pretending? If you’re quiet, I know you’re lying!” Lucy stood up and headed to the door, looking wounded. But Misha, propping himself up on his elbows as best he could, sat up in bed like he was about to chase after her. Realising he couldn’t, he called out, “Marry me, Lucy! I swear, soon nobody will even notice about my leg. I’ll get back on my feet—I promise! Don’t go, Lucy…” Lucy paused in the corridor, almost crying—yet somewhere inside, she suddenly felt that he was THE ONE. It didn’t matter anymore that her nose was “wrong” or her eyes too small, or that he’d lost his leg. They’d met at last. The time had come, just like Mum always said… Misha threw himself into rehab with energy and determination. He had a reason now: he wanted to marry the wonderful girl who’d stolen his heart, and he needed to be back on his feet for their future. He wanted Lucy to smile again and believe that she meant the world to someone—that she meant everything to him. “You’ve finally fallen in love, haven’t you, love?” her mum asked slyly a little later. “Look how you’ve blossomed—you said you were plain!” Lucy didn’t even bother to deny it. She floated around the house as if on wings. Her only wish was that Misha would soon walk confidently and get used to his prosthesis. Slowly their walks together got longer—first in the hospital courtyard, then out along the snow-covered, Christmas-lit city streets… “That building there—that’s where I got trapped. They’ve knocked it down now,” Misha pointed out one evening. “Why’d you sneak in there anyway? What did you see? You never told me,” Lucy remembered. “You’ll laugh—a puppy, black with white spots, shivering and skinny. I thought I’d take him home, so I wouldn’t be lonely,” Misha explained. “Look, there’s a scruffy dog over there, watching us but too scared to come close,” Lucy pointed. “That’s him, isn’t it?” Misha rejoiced, and the dog trotted over and tag-teamed them all the way home… “Wow, Lucy lucked out—snagged a handsome husband, younger than herself, who’s even got a flat and no mother-in-law!” her friends joked at the wedding. Lucy’s mum got teary when Misha started calling her “Mum” too. He’d grown up in a children’s home—no family at all. A good lad, with real warmth in his heart. Most importantly—they loved each other. May they always be happy. And as for the allotment—who cares! Misha cheerfully found ways round anything, and everything worked out in the end. For now Lucy, Misha, and their dog Kuzma make three—but soon, they’ll be four. Lucy and Misha are about to welcome a daughter. Never lose hope—otherwise, your happiness could pass right by and you’ll never know it. After all, that’s the beauty of life’s unpredictability…

04

“I Don’t Want Any Other Daughter-in-Law, So Do As You Please!” – A British Mother’s Ultimatum to Her Son Mark had just finished university and decided it was the perfect time to marry his first girlfriend from sixth form, Mary! Mary was not only pretty, but also kind and intelligent. At that time, she was writing her Master’s dissertation. The young couple agreed to get married as soon as she graduated. Mark decided to tell his mum about the wedding, but she didn’t bring good news. His mother told him that he must marry Amanda from next door—or no one at all. Then she asked him what mattered more: his career or his love life. She dreamed of her son becoming a successful man. Amanda came from a wealthy family and had fancied Mark for ages, but Mark had eyes only for Mary—who was from a much less respected family. Mary’s mother had a questionable reputation… What would the neighbours say? “I don’t want any other daughter-in-law, so do as you please!” she said. Mark tried to persuade his mother for a long time, but she was adamant, eventually telling him that she’d never forgive him if he married Mary. Mark lost his courage. He dated Mary for another six months, but their relationship slowly faded away. He eventually married Amanda. She genuinely loved him, but they decided against a wedding reception—Mark didn’t want Mary to see the wedding photos. Amanda’s family was wealthy, so Mark moved into their grand house. Her parents even helped him climb the career ladder. But he was never happy. Mark didn’t want children. When Amanda realised she couldn’t convince him, she filed for divorce. By that time, Mark was forty and Amanda was thirty-eight. She later remarried, had a child, and was truly happy. Mark dreamed of marrying Mary. He tried to find her, but it was as if she had disappeared. Then he learned she was gone. A friend told him that after their breakup, she married the first man she met, who turned out to be violent. He beat her to death. Afterwards, Mark moved into his parents’ old flat and began drinking himself into oblivion, always staring at a photo of Mary, unable to forgive his mother.

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📌 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

Raised by My Grandmother: Grateful for Her Care, But Her Love Came with Strings Attached