It was my senior year, and I thought it would be filled with exams, friends, and plans for the future. Instead, I was at home watching my grandmother decline from dementia. She often mistook me for her late husband, George. It drove me crazy—until one day, everything changed.
That day is one I will always remember. My grandmother, Gretchen, was not doing well. She was forgetful, confused, and her health was getting worse.
Mom and I knew something was wrong, but getting Grandma to see a doctor was not easy. She was stubborn and insisted she was fine. However, we finally convinced her to go.
After several tests, the doctor met with us and shared the news: dementia. I remember how Mom’s face fell when he explained that there wasn’t much they could do.
The medication might slow the disease down, but it wouldn’t stop it from getting worse. We had to accept that things were going to change.
That same day, we decided Grandma would move in with us. We couldn’t leave her alone, especially after my grandfather, George, passed away a few years ago. It was the right choice, but it didn’t make things any easier.
That night, I sat at my desk, trying to study for my exams. It was my final year, and I had a lot to handle. Then I heard her crying and whispering to someone.
I got up and walked toward her room, feeling sad. She was talking to Grandpa as if he were right there. It broke my heart to hear her, but there was nothing I could do.
As the months passed, Grandma’s condition got worse. There were days when she didn’t recognize where she was or who we were. Those moments were short but still hurt deeply.
One morning, I came downstairs to find Mom cleaning the kitchen. She looked tired, like she hadn’t slept much.
“Did Grandma move everything around again last night?” I asked, already knowing the answer.
Mom kept cleaning. “Yes,” she said quietly. “She woke up in the night and said the plates and cups were wrong. I told her nothing had changed, but she didn’t believe me. She kept moving things around, looking for things that weren’t even there.”
I didn’t know what to say, so I just patted her back. “It’ll be okay,” I mumbled, even though I wasn’t sure it would be.
Mom shook her head. “You shouldn’t have to worry about this. You have school to focus on. Do you want some breakfast?”
I shook my head. “No, thanks. I’ll eat later.” I picked up an apple from the table to have something in my hand and headed for the door. Mom didn’t say anything as I left.
When I got home, the house was quiet. Mom was still at work. I heard soft footsteps upstairs. Grandma was moving around again. I followed the sound and found her in the kitchen, shifting plates and cups from one cabinet to another.
She turned when she saw me, her eyes lighting up. “George! You’re back!” She rushed toward me with open arms.
I froze, unsure what to do. “No, Grandma. It’s me—Michael, your grandson.”
But she shook her head, not hearing me. “George, what are you talking about? We’re too young to have grandchildren. Someone moved the dishes again. Was it your mother? She always changes everything.”
I stood there, feeling helpless. “Grandma, listen. I’m not George. I’m Michael, your grandson. You’re at our house, mine and your daughter Carol’s.”
Her smile faded, and she looked confused. “George, stop saying these strange things. You’re scaring me. We don’t have a daughter. Remember? You promised to take me on that date by the sea. When can we go?”
I sighed, not knowing how to respond. I couldn’t keep telling her the truth; she didn’t understand. “I… I don’t know, Grandma,” I said softly, then turned and left the kitchen.
When Mom got home, I told her what had happened.
She sat down and smiled sadly. “I understand why she thinks you’re George.”
I frowned, confused. “What do you mean?”
Mom looked up at me. “You look just like him when he was young. It’s like you’re his twin.”
I was quiet for a moment. “I’ve never seen any pictures of him when he was younger.”
Mom stood up from the couch. “Come with me. I’ll show you.” She walked toward the attic and pulled down the stairs. I followed her up as she searched through a few old boxes. Finally, she handed me an old photo album.
I opened it. The first picture looked worn and faded. The man in it? He looked just like me.
“Is this Grandpa?” I asked, flipping through the pages.
“Yes,” Mom said softly. “See what I mean? You two really do look alike.”
“Too much alike,” I whispered, staring at the pictures.
“You can keep the album if you want,” Mom said.
That night, I sat in my room, flipping through the album again. I couldn’t believe how much I looked like him.
Grandma’s condition got worse every day. She barely spoke, and when she did, it was hard to understand her.
Sometimes she couldn’t even walk without help. Mom had to feed her most days. But no matter what, Grandma always called me “George.”
One afternoon, after she said it again, I snapped. “I’m not George! I’m Michael! Your grandson! Why don’t you understand?”
Mom looked up from where she was sitting. “Michael, she doesn’t understand anymore.”
“I don’t care!” I shouted. “I’m tired of this! I can’t handle it!”
I turned toward the hallway, my anger boiling over.
“Where are you going?” Mom asked, standing up quickly.
“I need to get out of here,” I said, my voice shaking. I grabbed my jacket and slammed the door behind me before Mom could say anything else. I needed space, away from it all. Away from Grandma’s confusion and my own frustration.
Without thinking, I ended up at the cemetery where my grandfather was buried. I walked between the rows of headstones until I found his grave.
Seeing his name on the stone brought a lump to my throat. I sat down on the grass in front of it and let out a long, heavy sigh.
“Why aren’t you here?” I asked, staring at the headstone. “You always knew what to do.”
The silence felt deafening. I sat there for what felt like hours, lost in my thoughts. I couldn’t stop thinking about all the times Grandpa had been there for me, for Mom, for Grandma. He had a way of making everything seem simple, no matter how hard life got.
Then, suddenly, a memory hit me. I was about five or six years old, wearing Grandpa’s big jacket and hat, telling him I wanted to be just like him.
He laughed so hard, but I remembered the pride in his eyes. That memory made me smile, even as tears streamed down my face.
It was getting dark, and I knew I had to go home. When I walked through the door, Mom was waiting, her face tight with worry.
“After you left, I took Grandma to the doctor,” she said, her voice breaking. “He said she doesn’t have much time left.”
I walked over and hugged her tightly, no words coming to mind. At that moment, I realized what I had to do.
The next day, I put on the suit that used to belong to Grandpa. It felt strange, like I was stepping into his shoes for real this time. I took Mom’s car and drove Grandma to the sea. She sat quietly beside me, not saying much, but I knew she was lost in her world.
When we got there, I had already set up a small table by the shore. The sea breeze felt cool, and the sound of the waves was calming.
I helped Grandma out of the car and guided her to the table. After she sat down, I lit the candles, their warm glow flickering in the wind.
“George!” Grandma said with a big smile. “You remembered our date by the sea.”
Her voice was weak, but I could see how happy she was. She looked at me like I really was Grandpa, her eyes full of warmth.
“Yes, Gretchen,” I said, sitting beside her. “I never forgot. How could I?”
She nodded slowly, still smiling. “It’s been so long since we’ve been here.”
That evening, I served Grandma the pasta Grandpa always made. I had spent hours in the kitchen earlier, following his recipe, hoping it would taste just like she remembered.
As she ate, I watched her closely, searching her face for any sign of recognition. She took slow bites, and I could see something change in her expression—a flicker of happiness.
After dinner, I played their favorite song, the one they used to dance to. The familiar melody filled the air, and I stood up, holding out my hand. “Would you like to dance, Gretchen?”
She looked at me, her eyes softening. “Of course, George.” I gently helped her up, and we swayed together.
For the first time in a long while, she smiled. In that moment, I could see she wasn’t lost in confusion; she was back in her happiest memories.
On the way home, she held my hand. “Thank you, George,” she said. “This was the best date ever.”
I just smiled at her, my heart heavy but full.
Two days later, Grandma passed away. I remember waking up that morning and feeling like something was different, like the house was quieter than usual.
When Mom told me, I didn’t know what to say. We just sat together in silence for a while, both of us crying. It was hard to accept, even though we knew it was coming.
I felt deep sadness, but at the same time, a strange sense of peace. I knew Gretchen was finally with her George again, where she belonged.
My Boyfriend Demanded That I Give Him My Card to Pay Our Restaurant Bill
When Lisa earns her much-deserved promotion, she wants to go out and celebrate with her boyfriend, Troy. At the restaurant, Lisa learns that Troy just wants to put on a façade and be the ‘man’—disrespecting her and her hard-earned role. But when he gives his number to a waitress, things take a turn, causing Lisa to embarrass Troy and walk out of their relationship.
It was meant to be a night of pure celebration. After six months at my new job, I had finally earned a significant promotion and was eager to share the joy with Troy, my boyfriend.
He suggested the new upscale restaurant in town, famous for its ambiance and gourmet menu.
“Let’s just get dressed and go out, Lisa,” he said. “We don’t do this very often, so let’s make the most of it.”
I had to agree; we rarely did this—we rarely decided to go out and indulge in anything.
“Fine,” I agreed. “A night out is exactly what we need.”
And I believed that we needed it. Mainly because, as much as I wanted to believe that Troy and I were supposed to last forever, I had begun to see some cracks in our relationship. Something just felt different.
I was happy in my job, but Troy wasn’t happy in his.
“I do so much, but nobody bothers to recognize me,” he said grimly one evening when he came over for salsa night.
Troy sat on the couch and dug his chips into the salsa and guacamole, complaining about work the entire evening.
It was because of his moods regarding work that I didn’t tell him anything good about my job.
“Maybe you just need to give it more time,” I said, handing him a frozen margarita. “You just started there a few months ago.”
“Lisa, please,” he said. “You wouldn’t understand. Let me be.”
But when I had gotten news of this new promotion, there was no way that I was going to keep it to myself. I wanted to celebrate and be celebrated, and I hoped that Troy would want to do just that.
To my surprise, he seemed really excited about it, and he told me that he was proud of me.
“Really, babe,” he said when he came over to my apartment to pick me up. “This is a big deal, and I’m proud of you.”
The evening started beautifully. Troy showed up with a bouquet of flowers, and he sat down and waited while I got ready. Usually, he wasn’t pleased if I was still getting ready when he arrived, but this evening was different.
“Come on,” I said. “I’m ready!”
Troy put his phone away and stood up, leading the way out of my apartment to where his car was waiting for us.
We drove in silence, but for once, the silence wasn’t tense—it was peaceful, and I felt that maybe Troy was changing. That he was becoming someone who wanted to be here and be present with me.
The soft lighting and the stunning view of the city skyline from our table set a romantic backdrop for our evening. We toasted to my success, with Troy raising his glass of champagne high.
“To the most amazing woman I know,” Troy cheered, clinking his glass against mine. “And to many more successes to come.”
“To us and to the future!” I echoed, suddenly caught up in the moment.
We went through the menu and ordered our meals while Troy spoke about the shared dreams that we had—from the Bali holiday that we had been speaking about for a long time, to wanting to move in together soon.
“I just think it’s time,” Troy said. “And now that you have your promotion, it will be much easier for us.”
Everything went along well, until the waitress brought our food over. Troy kept glancing at her, hoping to catch her eye—he winked at her twice.
I didn’t want to make a scene about it—Troy did this whenever he had something to drink. He behaved as though being a flirt was second nature.
But then, as we neared the end of our meal, I noticed a change in Troy. His usual easy smile tightened when the check was brought to our table. He smiled at the waitress as she stepped aside.
“You should let me pay with your card,” he said, a strain of insistence in his voice.
I was surprised. On the one hand, I didn’t mind paying for the dinner because it was my promotion and I was making a lot more money than I had before. But at the same time, I had also hoped that Troy would want to spoil me for the night.
“Why can’t you use your own card?” I asked, surprised by the frown on his face.
Troy’s irritation was barely concealed.
“Clearly because you’re the one who got promoted, and I don’t have enough money for these fancy dinners, Lisa! You know that, and yet you act like you don’t.”
I was confused by his logic.
“I’ll just pay with my card,” I said, putting my handbag on the table. “It’s not a big deal.”
My boyfriend’s face hardened as he took a sip of his whiskey—he had switched from champagne halfway through the meal.
“It’s embarrassing, Lisa,” he said. “It’s like you’re actually trying to humiliate me by not letting me be the man who pays.”
I didn’t know how to react to Troy’s words. It didn’t make sense to me. And I couldn’t understand what the waitress had to do with who was paying for our meal.
I would have retaliated and stood up for myself, but I could feel my energy being drained by Troy.
I felt cornered. And because I wanted to avoid making a scene, I reluctantly handed over my card.
Troy smirked and picked up my card, signaling for the waitress with an exaggerated flourish, presenting my card as if he were performing a grand gesture.
“I’ll be right back with the card machine,” the waitress said.
Feeling uneasy, I excused myself to the restroom. I just needed a moment to be myself. Troy did this all the time. But I thought that the evening was going well and that he was changing.
Of course, I was wrong.
Before thinking it through, I pulled my phone out and logged onto my banking app. With a few swipes and clicks, I had blocked my card.
Let’s see him pay now, I thought to myself.
On my way back, I paused near the bar, my attention caught by Troy’s laughter from across the room.
He was flirting openly with the waitress, scribbling something onto a napkin—presumably his phone number.
He handed it to her with a wink. I was stunned. I was hurt. A rush of indignation surged through me.
I returned to the table as the waitress spoke.
“I’m sorry, but there seems to be a problem,” she said. “Your card was declined.”
Troy’s confident façade crumbled as he stammered, turning away.
“What?” he asked. “Surely that can’t be right.”
Feigning concern, I suggested that Troy call the bank.
He sat back in his chair and pulled out his phone, dialing the bank and putting the call on speaker.
The representative asked for the card number, which Troy read off my card, followed by a request for the account password.
Finally, Troy hesitated. He was at a loss.
“Okay, Sir,” the person said through the phone. “If you can verify the last three transactions, it would help.”
The waitress hopped from one foot to the other.
“I can answer that,” I said. “A lavender-scented candle, some skincare products, and a new book. And Sir, the name on the card is Lisa Simmons.”
The waitress’s expression cleared with understanding, and Troy was left floundering for a response.
I then pulled out another card and paid the bill myself.
“Lucky I have two cards,” I told Troy and the waitress. “But babe, since you enjoyed the service, I think you can get the tip.”
Troy, red-faced, scrambled through his wallet, pulling out only expired coupons and a few small bills.
I stood up, waiting for Troy to say something—anything, but he sat there tight-lipped.
“Hey, I didn’t take his number,” the waitress said, a smirk playing on her lips. “I just threw the napkin away.”
“I’ll find my own way home,” I told Troy as I walked out into the night.
As I walked outside, I didn’t know if I had made a mistake. But at the end of the day, no relationship should make a person second guess themselves or make them feel like celebrating themselves is wrong.
Which is something that Troy did all the time.
I think I’m finally done with him.
What would you do?
If you enjoyed this story, here’s another one |
When Kyra discovers, by accident, that her boyfriend, Henry, has been cheating on her, she goes completely numb. Until he sends her an invoice for everything that he had ever spent on her. Fueled by her anger, Kyra fights back, exposing Henry for who he is and asking for her monetary rewards in return.
Leave a Reply