I raised my grandson from the day he was born, gave him everything I had, and loved him like my own son. So when he invited me on a weekend trip, I thought it was his way of showing gratitude. I never imagined I’d end up sleeping on the floor while karma prepared the lesson of his lifetime.
I’m 87 years old, and I thought I had seen everything life could throw at me. Wars, losses, heartbreak, even two strokes that left half my face numb for weeks. But nothing prepared me for being betrayed by the boy I’d raised as my own son.
You see, I’ve raised my grandson, Tyler, from the moment he entered this world. His mother, my sweet Marianne, died giving birth to him. His father, my son-in-law, Daniel, couldn’t handle the grief and disappeared from our lives.
Last I heard, he was somewhere in Nevada, living in a trailer park. So, it was I who fed Tyler his bottles at two in the morning, rocked him to sleep when he had colic, and walked him to his first day of kindergarten with his little backpack that was almost bigger than he was. I gave him everything I could scrape together on my baker’s salary and later on my pension.
But the boy I raised with so much love turned into a man I barely recognize anymore. Tyler is 32 now, and he still lives under my roof. Not because he takes care of me the way a grandson should, but because it’s convenient for him.
“Why should I waste money on rent when you have this big house, Grandma?” he says, like it’s my privilege to house a grown man who contributes nothing to the bills. What made it worse was this whole new persona he’d taken on in the last few years. He got deep into this so-called spiritual lifestyle.
There were meditation sessions at dawn that woke me up with his chanting, yoga mats rolled out in my living room where I used to watch my morning shows, and books about chakras and raising vibrations scattered all over the coffee table. To outsiders, he probably looked enlightened and peaceful. But to me, living with him day in and day out, it always felt like a mask he was wearing.
A performance covering up his refusal to get a steady job, his constant excuses for why he couldn’t contribute to groceries, and those shady friends who came and went at all hours of the night, whispering about investments and opportunities. So, when he came to me three weeks ago with a suggestion for a trip, I was genuinely shocked. “Grandma, Willow and I want to take a little weekend getaway to Charleston, and we want you to come along,” he said.
The story doesn’t end here –
it continues on the next page.
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