Every grandmother loves spending quality time with their grandkids during the holidays. But when my six-year-old granddaughter started calling me names, I put a plan in motion that helped me discover that not everyone in your life will appreciate you.
Every holiday, I look forward to having Brittany, my six-year-old granddaughter, stay with me for the winter break. I was excited about our usual traditions: baking cookies, watching movies, and spoiling her with gifts. But last year changed everything.
Chocolate chip cookies baking on a pan on the stove counter at Christmas | Source: Midjourney
The week before her arrival, I transformed my house into a winter wonderland. Also, my kitchen counters disappeared under bags of flour, sugar, and chocolate chips for her favorite Christmas cookies. I really went all out to make it special for her.
Anyway, when I pulled up to my son, Todd, and his wife Rachel’s house to pick her up, Brittany burst through the front door with her PAW Patrol backpack bouncing behind her. Her pink winter coat was only half-zipped, and one of her boots was untied.
Little blonde girl running through the front yard holding a Paw Patrol backpack | Source: Midjourney
“Nanny!” she squealed, launching herself into my arms. Her hair smelled like strawberry shampoo, and she squeezed my neck so tight I could barely breathe. “Did you get the special hot chocolate? The one with the little marshmallows?”
“Of course, I did, sweetheart. And maybe some other surprises too.” I winked at her while fixing her coat and boot.
Rachel appeared in the doorway, phone in hand. “Her pajamas are in the front pocket,” she said without looking up. “And try not to give her too much sugar this time. Last visit, she was bouncing off the walls for days after.”
I gave Rachel a reassuring smile and ushered Brittany to my car.
Elegant woman in her 60s smiling in her front yard | Source: Midjourney
That first night, Brittany refused to sleep in the guest room. “Please, Nanny? I want to see the Christmas tree lights!” She looked up at me with those big brown eyes, clutching her favorite stuffed dog. “Chase wants to see them too!”
I wasn’t sure about a child sleeping in the living room, but I figured one time wouldn’t hurt. So, I helped her make a nest of blankets on the couch, right where she could see the tree.
While I cooked dinner, she sprawled out with her coloring books, humming along to the Christmas music playing softly in the background.
Little blonde girl coloring on a kitchen island | Source: Midjourney
“Hey, old lady,” she called out suddenly, giggling. “Can I have some juice?”
I nearly dropped the spatula. “What did you say, honey?”
“Old lady!” she repeated, giggling harder. “Can I have apple juice?”
I gave her the juice and brushed off her words… at first. I knew kids picked up all sorts of things at school.
But over the next few days, things got worse. The playful “old lady” turned into “wrinkly hag” and other names that made my stomach twist.
Elegant woman in her 60s looking worried in her living room | Source: Midjourney
These weren’t things children should say, but Brittany never said them maliciously. I think she thought they were just nicknames, but I had to find out for sure.
One afternoon, while Brittany was coloring again, I pulled up a chair beside her. “Brit, honey, where did you learn to call me ‘old lady’ and ‘ha-hag’?” I stuttered. “Was it at kindergarten? Did you hear the other kids say them to others?”
Without missing a beat, she shook her head. “That’s what Mom and Dad say about you all the time when you call!”
A little blonde girl coloring with an elegant woman in her 60s sitting beside her looking worried | Source: Midjourney
My heart stopped.
Todd and Rachel? My own son and daughter-in-law were speaking about me like this? To their six-year-old? That wasn’t fair, especially after everything I’d done for them over the years.
My late husband and I had helped them buy their home, and I’d later chipped in with their mortgage payments. Also, I’d often rearranged my schedule to watch Brittany when their babysitter canceled.
I’d even paid for their family vacation to Disney World last summer. My eyes watered, remembering Rachel’s tight smile when I handed her the check. “You really don’t have to do this,” she’d said, but she took it anyway.
Woman in her 30s with a tight face holding a check in her living room | Source: Midjourney
Had she been resenting my help all along?
That night, I came up with a plan, but I knew I had to wait until my granddaughter’s vacation was over
The next day, I gently explained to Brittany that calling me those names wasn’t nice, and to her credit, she stopped. We spent the rest of her winter break enjoying our usual activities.
We baked enough cookies to feed an army, watched every Christmas movie in my collection twice, and stayed up until 10 p.m. on New Year’s Eve drinking hot chocolate with extra marshmallows.
A woman in her 60s sitting on a couch with her little granddaughter watching movies | Source: Midjourney
A few days after New Year’s, it was time to take Brittany back to Todd’s. While she was in the bathroom, I hesitated, then slipped a small voice recorder into her PAW Patrol backpack.
When I dropped her off, Rachel barely looked up from her phone. That was fine with me; I wasn’t sure I could hide my feelings.
I focused on my girl instead, hugging her extra tightly. “Love you, sweetheart,” I whispered.
“Love you too, Nanny,” she replied, skipping inside with her backpack.
Blonde little girl running to the front door of a house | Source: Midjourney
I went home and waited. I knew the recorder wouldn’t last more than a day, but I didn’t want to seem overeager. I waited almost two weeks before I finally called Rachel.
My hands shook as I dialed. “I was thinking Brittany might like to spend the weekend,” I said, keeping my voice light. “It’s been so quiet without her.”
“Oh, sure,” Rachel replied with a sigh. “That would be… helpful. We were thinking of having some people over anyway.”
Woman in her 30s holding a phone and looking inconvenienced | Source: Midjourney
That Friday, when Brittany arrived, I waited until she was engrossed in her new PAW Patrol episode before retrieving the recorder from her backpack. My fingers trembled as I plugged it into my computer.
At first, there was mostly crackling or incomprehensible noise. But then Rachel’s voice came through loud and clear, and soon, Todd joined the conversation.
They talked about nothing important for what felt like an eternity. And then, I heard it.
“She’s so exhausting,” Rachel said. “Always calling, always trying to help. Like we can’t raise our own child? Did you see how many toys she bought this time? She’s trying to buy Brittany’s love.”
Woman in her 60s walking through the mall holding bags of toys | Source: Midjourney
“I know, but she’s my mom,” Todd said weakly. “She means well.”
“Well, I’m sick of it,” Rachel added. “I bet she has Easter already planned for us and this summer’s vacation. I thought telling Brittany to call her names would get her to back off, but I bet she’ll be calling to babysit soon.”
“I’m tired of her meddling too,” my son chimed in. “Maybe, we should start putting some boundaries. Let’s plan something for this summer for ourselves.”
A blonde man in his 30s looking worried while talking to a woman at the kitchen table | Source: Midjourney
That was more than enough. I slammed the laptop shut and breathed intently through my nose.
I had all the confirmation I needed. They had intentionally set up my granddaughter to call me names. They also thought I was too intrusive in their lives.
Fine. If they wanted boundaries, I’d give them boundaries. They wanted me to mind my own business? I’d do just that.
That Sunday, I invited them for dinner. I made Todd’s favorite lasagna and even bought Rachel’s preferred wine. Brittany ate too much and fell asleep on the couch afterward. I thought that was a good time to face my son and daughter-in-law.
Little blonde girl sleeping on a couch | Source: Midjourney
“I have something you need to hear,” I said, setting my laptop on the dining table and pressing play.
Their faces went pale as their own voices filled the room. Rachel’s wine glass froze halfway to her mouth.
“Mom, I can explain,” Todd stammered but wouldn’t meet my gaze.
I held up my hand. “No excuses,” I said. “I’ve spent years supporting you both, loving you, being there whenever you needed me. And this is what you do? Teach my granddaughter to disrespect me?”
Elegant woman in her 60s sitting on a kitchen table with one hand up looking serious and upset | Source: Midjourney
I pulled out a bag of new toys I’d bought for Brittany. “These are for her. Because no matter what you think of me, I will always love that little girl. But things need to change. If you don’t appreciate my help or generosity, then I’m done.”
Rachel sat there, mouth opening and closing like a fish. Todd slumped in his chair, looking like the little boy who used to crawl into my bed during thunderstorms.
A man and woman in their 30s looking surprised and sad sitting at the kitchen table | Source: Midjourney
“These are the boundaries you wanted: no more financial help and no more babysitting unless I want to,” I sighed, crossing my arms. They still couldn’t say a word, and honestly, I didn’t want to hear anything from them. “I think it’s time you take Brittany home. Don’t call me unless it’s an emergency.”
Slowly, they stood and left quietly, carrying their sleeping daughter and the bag of toys. I locked the door behind them and sank onto my couch, exhausted but somehow lighter.
Elegant woman in her 60s sitting on a couch looking relaxed but pensive | Source: Midjourney
A while later, I made myself a cup of tea and turned on my favorite show. The house felt too quiet without Brittany’s giggles and running footsteps.
Sometimes standing up for yourself hurts, but it’s better than letting people walk all over you. I just hoped that one day, my family would understand that my love didn’t mean they could take me for granted, or that they could teach my precious granddaughter to hurt me.
Elegant woman in her 60s sitting on a couch drinking tea looking relaxed but pensive | Source: Midjourney
My Family Turned Against Me When I Became a Private Detective, but a Teen Girl’s Case Changed Everything — Story of the Day
My family turned their backs on me when I left journalism to become a private detective. They saw it as a disgrace, and I started to wonder if they were right. No clients, no money, just regrets. But then a teenage girl walked into my office, searching for her mother—and her case changed everything.
I was sitting in my small, dimly lit office, sorting through the week’s mail. Bills, bills, bills, advertisements, more bills. The usual.
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I let out a heavy sigh and set the letters aside, covering my face with my hands.
I used to be a journalist—a successful one, I must say—but I always felt like it wasn’t enough.
Stories were always unfinished, truths half-exposed, and justice left waiting. So, at 42, I quit my job and decided to become a private detective.
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It was something that truly interested me, something I had always wanted to do.
My family didn’t support me. They tried to talk me out of it, but when they realized my mind was made up, they turned their backs on me.
My husband finally had a reason to leave me for a younger woman—one with shinier hair, fewer wrinkles, and, I assumed, fewer opinions.
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And my daughter? She cut me out of her life completely. She saw being a private detective as disgraceful—especially when compared to the prestige of journalism.
Of course, it hurt. But the longer I worked as a private detective, the more I started to wonder if they had been right.
I hadn’t had a new client in nearly three months, and I had plenty of debt. People didn’t believe in a female private investigator.
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Men were assumed to be better at solving cases—stronger, sharper, tougher. As if intuition, patience, and persistence didn’t count.
Suddenly, even surprisingly, I heard a hesitant knock at the door. I straightened up, quickly smoothing my hair and shoving the pile of bills into a drawer.
“Come in!” I called out.
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The doorknob turned slowly, and the door creaked open. A girl, about fifteen, stepped inside.
She hesitated, shifting her weight from foot to foot. Her clothes were too small—cheap, second-hand, sleeves of her sweater jagged as if they’d been cut off.
“How can I help you?” I asked, motioning to the chair across from my desk.
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She sat down carefully, pulling her sleeves over her hands, her long, unkempt hair kept falling into her face. She brushed it away absently, over and over.
One thing was clear—she didn’t have a mother. I had taught my daughter how to braid her hair when she was six. This girl had no idea what to do with hers.
“My name is Emily,” she said, her voice quiet but firm. “I’m an orphan. I need your help to find my mother.”
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I studied her face. She looked nervous, but her eyes held something else—determination.
“She gave you up?” I asked.
Emily nodded. “Yes. I don’t know anything about her. Not her name, not what she looks like. Nothing.”
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She swallowed hard. “I’m fifteen now. No one is going to adopt me at this point. But I want to find her. I just want to see her. I need to understand why she left me.”
Her words stung. No child should feel unwanted. No child should wonder why they weren’t enough.
“I’ll need something to go on,” I said, reaching for my notebook.
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Emily sat up straighter. “I was born in this town. I’ve never moved, never been sent anywhere else.” She took a breath. “My birthday is February 15, 2009.”
I jotted it down.
“Is that enough?” she asked, her fingers gripping the edge of her sweater.
“I’ll do everything I can,” I promised.
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She hesitated, then pulled a few crumpled bills from her pocket. “I have some money, but not much.”
It wasn’t even close to what I needed, but that didn’t matter.
“If I find her, then you can pay me,” I said.
Her lips trembled. “Thank you.”
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She stood to leave.
“Wait. How can I find you?” I asked.
She scribbled an address and handed it to me. “My foster home. I’ll be there.”
I nodded, and she walked out.
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The next morning, I wasted no time. It had been a long time since I had worked on a real case.
Even though I knew I wouldn’t make any money from this one—I couldn’t, in good conscience, take money from an orphan—it still felt good to have a purpose.
The first place I went was the hospital. Our town had only one, which made things easier.
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If Emily’s mother had given birth there, the records would be somewhere inside.
One advantage of my former job was that I had connections everywhere. The hospital was no exception.
I knew exactly who to talk to—Camilla. She had been a nurse for years, and we had met back when I was covering a story about harassment in hospitals.
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She had been a source then. Since that day, she’d been a friend. As soon as she spotted me, she put down her clipboard and grinned.
“Sara!” she said, pulling me into a quick hug. “What brings you here? Please don’t say trouble.”
“I need your help,” I said, leaning in slightly.
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Camilla raised an eyebrow. “Of course you do. You never just stop by to visit an old friend, do you?”
I crossed my arms. “You were literally at my house for dinner last week.”
She smirked. “Fine. What do you need?”
“Birth records. February 15, 2009.”
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She blinked. “That’s specific. Should I be worried?”
“Nothing illegal. I just need to find a name.”
Camilla folded her arms. “That’s doable, but make it fast.”
I hesitated. “The baby was given up, probably in secret.”
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Her expression changed. “Sara, you know I can’t just hand you confidential records.”
“Please,” I said. “Just a quick look. No one will even notice.”
She studied me, then sighed. “You have ten minutes.”
I smiled. “Thank you. I owe you.”
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She rolled her eyes. “You owe me for life.”
She led me through a narrow hallway to the hospital archives. The air smelled of dust and old paper.
Camilla pulled out a thick folder labeled 2009 – Abandoned Newborns and handed it to me.
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“Be quick,” she whispered.
I flipped through the pages, my fingers trembling. February 15. My eyes locked on the mother’s name. My breath caught.
No. This couldn’t be real.
I shoved the file back and hurried out.
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Camilla stood by the door. “Sara, you’re as pale as a ghost. What happened?”
“I’ll explain later,” I muttered, pushing past her. I needed air.
I stood outside a house I had never seen before. The air felt heavy, pressing down on me.
Emily’s case had become the hardest of my career. Too personal. Too close.
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I stared at the door. My hands felt numb. I couldn’t bring myself to ring the bell.
I took a breath and reached for the doorbell. My hand hovered over it. I could still turn around, pretend I never came. But that wasn’t an option. Not for Emily.
I pressed the button. The chime echoed inside. Footsteps approached.
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The door opened, and I saw her.
Her face paled. Her lips parted in shock. “Mom?”
I swallowed hard. My throat felt tight. “Hi.”
Meredith blinked. Her fingers tightened around the edge of the door. “What are you doing here? I thought I made it clear—I don’t want to see you.”
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I met her gaze. “I wouldn’t have come if this were about me.”
Her eyes darkened. “Then why are you here?”
I took a deep breath. “For your daughter.”
The color drained from her face. Her whole body tensed. “How… how did you—” She couldn’t finish.
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Her breath hitched. Tears filled her eyes. Then, without a word, she stepped aside and let me in.
The kitchen was small but neat. She moved stiffly, as if her body wasn’t sure what to do. She pulled out a chair and sat down.
I stayed standing for a moment, then sat across from her. Silence filled the space between us.
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“Her name is Emily, if you’re wondering,” I said. “No one ever adopted her. She’s been living with foster families. She came to me to find her mother, but I never imagined—”
Meredith squeezed her hands together. “Please stop,” she whispered.
I waited.
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“I have regretted it my whole life,” she said, her voice breaking. “I tried to forget. I told myself it was the best thing. That she’d have a better life without me. And now you show up out of nowhere to remind me what a terrible person I am.”
“You’re not terrible. You were a child yourself when she was born. I just don’t understand how you hid it. How did your father and I not know?”
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“I wore loose clothes. My belly wasn’t that big. And I planned to give birth in another town, but you and Dad went abroad for your work right before it happened. So it all worked out,” she said.
“Tell her I couldn’t be found,” Meredith said suddenly.
“Why?” I asked. “Meredith, I’m a mother too. I know what it’s like to lose a child. Nothing is more painful than that.”
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She lowered her gaze. Her voice trembled. “How can I face her? She’ll hate me.”
I let her words hang in the air. “Maybe,” I admitted. “But even so, she wanted to find you. That means something.”
Meredith wiped at her eyes. “What if she doesn’t want me?”
“She wants answers. She wants to know where she came from. You owe her that.”
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She looked away. I knew she resented me. But I reminded myself—this wasn’t about us. It was about Emily.
“I have her address,” I said. “Do you want to see her?”
Meredith hesitated. Then, slowly, she nodded.
We drove in silence. The streetlights flickered as we passed. When we reached the house, Meredith didn’t move. Her fingers dug into her lap.
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“Aren’t you coming?” she asked.
I shook my head. “This is between you two.”
She looked down. Her voice broke. “Mom… I regret cutting you out. I was ashamed.”
I turned to her. “You are my daughter. No matter what, I will always love you.”
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Her face crumpled, and she reached for me. I wrapped my arms around her, holding her the way I had when she was little.
“What you’re doing is important,” she whispered. “People like Emily need you.”
I smiled, brushing a strand of hair from her face.
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Then she stepped out, walked to the door, and knocked.
A moment later, Emily appeared. They stared at each other. Then Meredith took a breath. Emily took a step forward.
They talked. They cried. And then Emily wrapped her arms around her mother.
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If you enjoyed this story, read this one: My future brother-in-law was always a problem—rude, arrogant, and always pushing boundaries. But on my wedding day, he crossed a line we could never forgive. He humiliated me in front of everyone, turning my perfect day into a nightmare. That was the last straw, and my fiancé finally had enough.
This piece is inspired by stories from the everyday lives of our readers and written by a professional writer. Any resemblance to actual names or locations is purely coincidental. All images are for illustration purposes only. Share your story with us; maybe it will change someone’s life.
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