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Raised by My Gran: Grateful for Her Care, but Her Love Came with Strings Attached
It was my grandmother who raised me. Of course, Im grateful to her, but in truth, her love had its conditions.
I was just five years old when my beloved dad decided he no longer wanted to be part of our family. He left us for a woman who was younger than my mum. Because we had been living in his flat at the time, the moment the divorce went through, he demanded that Mum and I move out immediately.
So I ended up living with Gran, my mums mum. My father was such a brave man that he found all sorts of ways to avoid paying child support. To put it plainly, Mum and I were left without a penny to our names and moved into Grans small flat. Those days were desperately tough. Gran had only a meagre pension, Mum was forever away working, and I had to do all the chores after coming back from school.
As I got older, I sometimes skipped classes to work at local construction sites, so my education fell by the wayside. I felt so sorry for my mum and gran, barely scraping by. By the end of Year Eight, Id made up my mind to leave school and get a full-time job to help out. Thats when Grans sister appearedAunt Betty. She offered to take me in, help me with my studies, and support me financially. Aunt Betty had no children of her own, so she was eager for me to live with her. Mum and Gran agreed.
So I moved in with Aunt Betty. Mum and Gran would visit from time to time. Life with Aunt Betty was much easiershe had a decent pension and I was able to concentrate on school without having to work. She taught me to cook, and even to sew. I finished school with honours and went on to university to study law.
Aunt Betty would often say that as soon as I graduated, she would put my name in her will for her flat in London. She told me she loved me dearly, that I was family, and she wanted to help me however she could. But life has a way of surprising us. In my third year of university, I met Emily.
She was so beautiful and clevermy feelings were returned, and I knew then I wanted to marry her. But when Aunt Betty found out, she created an uproar, insisting that Emily was only after my future inheritance and didnt really love me.
She said that if I didnt break off the relationship, she would remove me from her will. Of course, I told Emily everything. She suggested we split up if the flat meant so much to me, but she also made it clear shed live with me anywhere, even in a bedsit, because she loved me for who I was. In the end, I took a riskand chose love. Aunt Betty cut all contact with me. I lost the flat, but I had Emily by my side.
Now, ten years have passed since our wedding. We have two children, and our love is stronger than ever. Each passing year I become more certain that I made the right choice.
Life taught me that real love is worth more than money or security. True happiness comes not from the things we own, but from the people who truly care for us.
You’re Robbing My Son Blind—He Can’t Even Afford a Light Bulb! On Sunday morning, I was curled up on the sofa with a blanket while my husband drove over to his mother’s to “change some light bulbs.” But of course, the real reason for summoning her darling boy was something else entirely: “Son, have you forgotten it’s Igor’s birthday today?” My husband’s the generous type—his salary barely lasts a week. Thankfully, he still gives me cash for the bills and groceries, but the rest? He blows it all on new video games and whatever gadgets go with them. I don’t mind; better my man enjoys his hobbies than squanders his time (and money) in pubs or nightclubs. Besides, I once read that the first forty years of childhood are the hardest for any man. I’m not telling you this for sympathy, just so you understand why my husband always has empty pockets. I have no such problem—even manage to save. I often lend him money in emergencies, but when it’s for his mum, niece, or sister, I always say no. Naturally, I remembered Igor’s birthday. Last week, I bought his present myself. Before my husband set off, I handed it over and settled down to watch a film. I didn’t go—the mutual animosity between me and my in-laws made sure of that. They think I don’t love him, accuse me of being mean because I refuse to fund their expenses or mind my sister-in-law’s kids. Once, I watched them for an hour, but they picked them up half a day late, making me miss work—when I dared complain, his mum and sister called me shameless and rude. After that, any requests to babysit were met with a firm “no.” Didn’t bother me if my husband watched the kids—he enjoys their company. Not long after my husband left, he returned—with the whole family in tow, nieces and all. His mum barged in, coat still on, and declared: “We’ve decided that, for Igor’s birthday, he’ll get the tablet he wanted—two grand it cost. You owe me a thousand pounds for your share. Pay up.” I might have bought the lad a tablet—but nothing that expensive. Obviously, I refused to hand over any cash. That’s when my husband started guilt-tripping me for being stingy. I turned on the laptop and called Igor over. In five minutes, we picked and ordered a gadget he really wanted—job done. Thrilled, Igor dashed off to his mum, who’d been sulking in the hallway. My sister-in-law always had sticky fingers—nothing in our house was safe. My mother-in-law, meanwhile, ignored my thoughtful gesture and exploded with indignation: “No one asked for your help. You were meant to give money! You’re with my son, and he’s always skint, can’t even buy a lightbulb. Hand me a thousand pounds now—you know full well that money belongs to my boy!” She reached for my handbag on the nightstand. I glared at my husband and hissed, “You’ve got three minutes to get them out of here.” In less than three minutes, he’d grabbed his mother and chucked her and the lot of them out the door. So, yes, I’d rather my husband waste his wages on games than have his mother snatch every penny. At least he spends it on things that make him happy, not on those freeloaders. Sometimes, I genuinely think I’d have been better off marrying an orphan!
Youre robbing my son, he cant even afford a lightbulb. One Sunday morning, I was curled up under a blanket...
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