I remember the first time my oldest grandchild asked me for money. It was for a school trip, something educational, they said. My heart swelled. To be needed, to be able to help. I sent it immediately, a little extra for good measure. They called, full of thanks, and that sound… that honest gratitude, it was everything.
Then came the second time. A new laptop for college. “Mine’s dying, Grandma,” they explained, sounding so forlorn. Of course. How could I let my brilliant grandchild struggle? My pension isn’t endless, but for them, I’d move mountains. I found a way. A chunk of my savings went. The thanks were just as effusive.
It became a pattern. A new pattern, a new life for me. Their calls weren’t just “hello, how are you?” anymore. They were “Grandma, could you…?” Car repairs, rent shortfalls, urgent bills, course materials, even just “food money” because their part-time job hours had been cut. Each time, I felt that familiar tug – a mix of worry for them and a desperate need to be their safety net. My purpose.
An older woman’s shoes | Source: Midjourney
I’d always prided myself on being independent. After my partner passed, I built a quiet life. Small, but comfortable. But with each request, that comfort chipped away. I started saying no to my own small luxuries. The weekly coffee with friends became fortnightly. New clothes? A distant memory. Even groceries felt like a careful negotiation. It’s for them, I’d tell myself, looking at the meager balance in my account. They need it more.
The requests weren’t just from one grandchild anymore. The younger ones started too. One needed a deposit for an apartment. Another, help with a medical bill their insurance wouldn’t cover. They’d send long, heartfelt messages, sometimes even photos of whatever crisis they were facing. It felt so real, so immediate. And I’d always, always come through. Always.
But a creeping unease began to settle in. Their calls started to feel transactional. They’d rarely ask about me anymore. How was my day? Was I doing okay? It was always straight to the point, then a quick goodbye. They stopped visiting as much. “Too busy,” they’d say. “Exams.” “Work.” But never too busy to send a message when the bank account was looking low. Am I just an ATM with a pulse? The thought was bitter, quickly dismissed. No. They love me. They just need me right now.
The last big request was for a down payment on a car. A reliable car, they insisted, essential for getting to their new job, for their future. It was a huge sum. It meant practically emptying my emergency fund, money I’d earmarked for my own unexpected health issues. I hesitated, for a full day. My hands shook as I typed the transfer details. This was it. I was truly bare.
The call of thanks was brief, almost rushed. A few days later, a photo of the new car arrived. Shiny, expensive, far beyond what I’d imagined a “reliable” car to be. A sports model, almost. A pang of something cold, hard, shot through me. No, don’t think like that. But the seed of doubt, once planted, began to sprout.
A woman standing outdoors | Source: Pexels
I was planning my frugal grocery trip one Tuesday when I overheard a conversation. My neighbor, bless her heart, was on the phone, her voice carrying clear through our thin wall. She was talking to her daughter, my eldest grandchild’s mother. I didn’t mean to listen. I really didn’t. But then I heard my name.
“Oh, you know,” my neighbor’s daughter was saying, a little too loudly, “I told them to just ask her. She always comes through. It’s like she lives for it.“
My stomach lurched. Lives for it?
Then my neighbor chimed in, “Well, she has the money, doesn’t she? Always talking about how she ‘saved well.’ Good for her. You know, she’s lonely since my partner passed. Needs a purpose.”
A purpose. Was that all I was? A purpose to empty my pockets? The words were a physical blow. But it wasn’t the twist. Not yet. This was just the precursor, the confirmation of my worst fears that I was being used.
I stopped my grocery planning. My hands were shaking again, but not from hesitation this time. From anger. And a deep, profound hurt. I felt a sudden, desperate need to know. To confirm. I remembered a small, local café that one of my younger grandkids used to frequent – the one who needed help with “medical bills.” I decided to take a walk, a long walk. Maybe I’ll just clear my head.
I saw them. My grandchild, laughing. Not alone. With a group of friends. And then, I saw the other person. Someone I recognized. My other grandchild. The one who’d just gotten the “reliable” car. And they weren’t drinking coffee. They were holding up champagne flutes. Champagne.
My heart thrummed against my ribs. What was going on? I hovered, hidden by a large potted plant, feeling like a spy in my own life.
“To the biggest score of the month!” one of the friends shouted, clinking glasses.
A doorknob | Source: Pexels
My youngest grandchild, the one with the medical bills, beamed. “And to Grandma. Seriously, she’s the gift that keeps on giving. I told you guys, once you get her on the hook, she never says no.”
My oldest grandchild, the one with the “new job” car, raised their glass higher. “She loves it. Being the ‘savior.’ It’s like a game for her. She thinks she’s being a hero.“
A hero. I felt a cold dread spread through me. A game?
Then, the words that shattered everything. The real twist. The words that I replay endlessly in my mind, making me sick to my core.
My oldest grandchild, leaning in conspiratorially, said, “Seriously, it’s almost too easy. Dad even gives us a cut for every time we manage to pull a big one off her. He says it’s for ‘teaching us how to manage finances and leverage assets.’ Said it’s an ‘investment’ in our future.”
My breath hitched. DAD. My child. Their parent. My own flesh and blood. My child was orchestrating this. Coaching them. Encouraging them. Taking a cut of the money I was painstakingly saving, money meant for my own meager comfort, for their future, for my future.
It wasn’t just my grandkids using me. It was a calculated, cold-blooded scheme. My own child. The one I raised, loved, sacrificed for. They were the architect of my financial ruin, using their own children as pawns.
I stumbled backward, bumping against the plant, sending a pot crashing. Every head turned. My grandkids froze, their laughter dying on their lips, their faces draining of color as they saw me. Their hero. Their ATM. Their mark.
I just stared. The champagne flutes, the expensive car keys glinting on the table, the casual cruelty of their words still echoing in the air. The truth, finally, was out. Not just that they were using me, but that my own child, their parent, was profiting from my loneliness and generosity, turning my love into a family business of betrayal.
A police car | Source: Pexels
My vision blurred. I didn’t say a word. I just turned and walked away, the sound of the shattered pot still ringing in my ears, not nearly as loud as the sound of my heart breaking into a million irreparable pieces. How could they? How could he? The questions burn, unanswered, leaving only a hollow ache where trust and love once bloomed. And I’m left with nothing but an empty bank account and an even emptier heart.
