When I was fourteen, my mom and I moved in with my grandmother after my dad left. Mom couldn’t afford rent on a teacher’s salary, and Grandma had a spare room. But living there wasn’t peaceful. Grandma liked control. Mom cooked, cleaned, paid bills, and kept the house running—without ever hearing thank you. Grandma would just say, “That’s what daughters do.”
I noticed, but as a teenager, I cared more about my own life. Eventually, I left for college. Mom stayed.
Last year, my mom died suddenly. I fell apart. I lost my job and could barely pay rent. Then Grandma called and offered me my old room. Lonely and desperate, I moved back.
The first night, she told me I’d be handling dinner now. With the little money I had, I cooked a simple meal. She called it “cheap” and threw it in the trash.
A month later, I found old records showing Mom had paid Grandma rent, utilities—everything—for years. We had struggled, and Grandma still took her money.
When I confronted her, she shrugged. “I gave her a roof.”
The next morning, I left. Now I live in a tiny apartment and I’m struggling—but I can breathe.
I still feel sad sometimes. She’s my only family left. But staying would have cost me more than I could afford.
