Lydia Moore stood by her kitchen window, watching her grandson Max throw stones at the neighbour’s cat. The boy was only seven, but there was a hardness in his movements that made her uneasy.
“Max, stop that right now!” she called, pushing the window open.
He didn’t even turn around. Just picked up a bigger rock and hurled it again. The cat yowled and bolted behind the garages.
Lydia sighed and reached for her coat. She’d have to go down and talk to him, though she knew it wouldn’t do much good. Max never listened—just scowled, talked back, or even ran off to his mum to complain.
In the stairwell, she nearly bumped into Mrs. Thompson from next door.
“Lydia, have you seen your grandson?” she huffed. “He’s tormenting my Misty again!”
“I saw, love. I’ll have a word.”
“What good will that do? You should be talking to Alice. This is all her doing—or rather, her *not* doing.”
Lydia kept quiet. She wasn’t in the mood for an argument, but she couldn’t agree either. Alice was her daughter, and no matter how strained things got, she’d always defend her.
Outside, Max had moved on to a new hobby—plucking wings off flies trapped in a jar.
“Max, what are you doing?” Lydia sat beside him on the bench.
“Experimenting,” he muttered, not looking up.
“Experimenting how?”
“How they’ll live without wings.”
“Why would you want to know that?”
He shrugged. “Dunno. Just interesting.”
Lydia gently took the jar from him. “Flies are living things too, love. It hurts them when you do that.”
“So? They’re gross.”
“It doesn’t matter if you like them or not—you don’t hurt things weaker than you.”
Max stared at her like she was speaking another language. “Mum says if someone’s weaker, you don’t have to be scared of ’em.”
Her chest tightened. Had Alice really taught him that?
“Your mum says a lot of things, love, but not all of them are right. Strong people protect the weak. They don’t pick on them.”
“Sounds daft,” Max scoffed, then dashed off to the swings.
That evening, Lydia waited for Alice. She turned up just past eight, worn out from work and already bristling.
“Mum, did you feed him?” she snapped, no hello.
“Course I did. Alice, we need to talk.”
“About what?” She fiddled with her handbag strap.
“Max. The way he’s acting.”
Alice rolled her eyes. “Not this again. He’s seven, Mum. All kids muck about at that age.”
“This isn’t just mucking about. He’s cruel to animals, rude to adults, won’t listen—”
“So what d’you want me to do? Lock him in his room?”
“I want you to *parent* him. Teach him right from wrong.”
Alice scoffed. “Times have changed, Mum. You’ve got to be tough to get by now. I won’t have my son growing up soft.”
“There’s a difference between strength and cruelty!”
“What difference? Point is, you don’t let people walk over you.”
Lydia hardly recognised her daughter. Where was the kind-hearted girl she’d raised? When had Alice turned so bitter?
“Max, we’re leaving!” Alice called toward the playground.
He trudged over. “Nan, can I come tomorrow?”
“’Course, sweetheart.”
Alice grabbed his hand and headed for the gate but turned back.
“Mum, don’t fill his head with nonsense about kindness. The world’s brutal.”
After they left, Lydia sat on the bench a long time, wondering where she’d gone wrong. Alice had been an ordinary child—not perfect, but not cruel. Studied decently, helped round the house, never back-chatted. What had changed?
The next day, Max arrived in a foul mood.
“What’s happened?” Lydia asked, spotting the scratch on his cheek.
“Tom’s a git. Scratched me.”
“Why’d he do that?”
“Dunno. Just did.”
Lydia didn’t buy it. Tom from down the road was a quiet lad—she knew his parents.
“Max, tell me the truth. What did you do to Tom?”
“Nothing much.” He wouldn’t meet her eyes. “Just took his sweets.”
“Took or *stole*?”
“Well… stole. But I didn’t hit him!”
“And he didn’t want to share?”
“No. Tight-fisted jerk.”
Lydia sighed. “You can’t take what isn’t yours, love. If you want sweets, ask or buy your own.”
“Why? 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 get things wrong too, Max. Even your mum.”
He chewed on that. “So… if Mum’s wrong, who’s right?”
“The ones who don’t hurt weaker people. 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 staying quiet wasn’t an option.
“I try to be right, love. But what matters is your conscience. It’ll tell you what’s good or bad.”
“What’s a conscience?”
“The little voice inside you. When you took Tom’s sweets, didn’t it say anything?”
Max frowned. “Yeah. But Mum says that’s rubbish.”
“What do *you* think?”
“Dunno,” he admitted.
So Lydia told him a story—a tale about a gentle giant who protected the weak. Max listened, asked questions. For once, he seemed to be thinking.
Afterwards, they went outside. Kids were playing, including Tom, who ducked behind his mum when he saw Max.
“Max,” Lydia murmured, “maybe say sorry to Tom?”
He glanced at her, then at the boy. “Why?”
“Because you hurt him.”
“But he’s weaker.”
“That’s exactly why you should.”
Max hesitated—then shuffled over. “Sorry I nicked your sweets.”
Tom blinked. “S’alright.”
“Wanna play?”
“Yeah.”
The boys raced off to the sandpit. Lydia’s heart felt lighter.
That evening, Alice stormed in, angrier than usual.
“Mum, what’ve you been filling Max’s head with?” she barked.
“What d’you mean?”
“Tom’s mum rang. Said Max *apologised* for taking his sweets. *Apologised!*”
“For stealing, yes.”
“So what? Kids nick things all the time. You’re turning him into a doormat!”
“Alice, I’m teaching him decency.”
“Decency?” She laughed harshly. “Mum, what world d’you live in? Decent people get trampled.”
“Why d’you think that?”
“Because it’s true! The world’s vicious. If you don’t fight, you lose.”
Lydia studied her—the exhaustion, the bitterness. “Alice, what happened to you?”
She turned away. “Nothing. Life taught me.”
“Taught you what?”
“That kindness is weakness. That if you’re nice, people use you. That you’ve got to look out for yourself.”
“And you want Max to be like that?”
“I want him to survive!”
Lydia pulled her into a hug. “Alice, talk to me. What’s hurt you so much?”
At first Alice stiffened—then broke down.
“Mum, I’m *tired*… Tired of fighting, of proving I’m worth anything. My boss belittles me, my colleagues stab me in the back. Max’s dad left when I got pregnant. My so-called friends vanished when I needed help.”
“And you decided everyone’s rotten?”
“Aren’t they? Everyone’s out for themselves.”
“Not everyone, love. Good people exist—you’ve just got to let yourself see them.”
Alice wiped her eyes. “I don’t want Max learning the hard way like I did. Better cruel than naive.”
“Or—maybe there’s a middle? Kind but not a pushover? Helps others but won’t be used?”
“How?”
“Teach him to read people. That kindness isn’t weakness—it’s strength. That real strength means standing up *for* people, not over them.”
Alice went quiet.
“Look at Max today,” Lydia pressed. “He apologised to Tom, made a friend. Did that make him weak?”
“
