When I was fourteen, my mom and I moved in with my grandmother. My parents had just divorced, and my dad had walked out on both of us. Mom told me she didn’t have a choice. Her teacher’s salary wasn’t enough to cover rent, and Grandma had the room.
But living with Grandma was far from easy.
If you’re picturing a gentle, fragile old woman, erase that image. My grandmother wasn’t lonely or helpless—she simply liked being in control. Within weeks of us moving in, Mom was doing everything: cleaning, cooking, paying bills, keeping the house running. Grandma never once thanked her. She’d just say, “That’s what daughters do.”
And me? I was a teenager. I noticed what was happening, but I didn’t care enough to step in. My friends and social life mattered more. Eventually, I left for college, escaping the tension of that house. Mom stayed behind.
Then last year, everything changed.
My mom died—suddenly and without warning. I was completely undone. Grieving made it impossible to focus at work, and after a while, my company let me go. I was heartbroken, broke, and drifting through each day with no direction. I barely had enough money left to cover rent. I didn’t know what to do next.
And that’s when Grandma called.
We hadn’t spoken much since I moved out, so her voice surprised me. She said, “You shouldn’t be alone. Your room’s still here.” Maybe it was the loneliness or how much I missed my mom, but I agreed. I packed what little I had and moved back into Grandma’s house.
But there was a reason she wanted me back.
On my first night home, she looked at me and said, “You’ll handle dinner now, won’t you? Your mother always made sure I ate well.” I nodded, not knowing how to say no. With the little money I had left, I bought groceries—simple things like pasta, chicken, and vegetables.
When I served dinner, Grandma stared at the plate. “Your mother never fed me cheap food,” she said. I tried to explain that I couldn’t afford anything else, but she stood up, grabbed the plate, and threw it straight into the trash.
I didn’t say a word. I felt small, helpless. She knew I had nothing. She also knew how desperately I needed a place to stay. And still, somehow, she expected… more.
A month later, I learned the truth.
I was sorting through my mom’s old desk when I found a stack of folders labeled Bills and Transfers. Inside were records showing that every month since we’d moved in, Mom had been paying Grandma for everything—rent, utilities, even groceries. We had practically nothing, yet Grandma still took money from her own daughter.
Something inside me broke.
I went downstairs and showed Grandma the folder. She didn’t flinch. She didn’t look guilty. She just shrugged and said she had given Mom “a roof over her head.”
That was it for me.
The very next morning, I packed my bags and left. I found the smallest apartment I could afford and managed to pay the deposit with the last of my savings. I’m struggling—really struggling—but at least I can breathe.
Sometimes, I think of Grandma, and I feel sad. She’s the only family I have left. But then I remember how much my mom suffered, how much she paid, both financially and emotionally, for a place that never felt like home. And the sadness turns into anger.
I don’t know what to feel anymore. I don’t know what to do. And I keep asking myself one question:
Did I do the right thing by moving out?
