My Beloved Grandma
A thief breaks into a house to rob it — and finds a grandmother who mistakes him for her grandson. Not only does he not steal: he cooks.
I had been watching that house for three weeks. I knew she lived alone — an old lady who barely went out. I had seen her through the window a couple of times, moving slowly through the shadows inside. She was the perfect target.
That night I forced open the kitchen window without making a sound. My hands didn’t shake like they used to; after two years of doing this, I had perfected the technique. I entered with my flashlight off, letting my eyes adjust to the darkness. The plan was simple: find jewelry, money, something valuable — and get out.
I was walking down the hallway when I heard a voice.
“Carlitos? Is that you, my dear?”
I froze. A lamp switched on in the room. She was there, sitting on a worn armchair, a blanket over her legs and a smile wrinkling her whole face.
“I knew you’d come,” she said, her eyes shining. “You always come on Fridays.”
I should have run. That’s what anyone with half a brain would have done. But something in her gaze pinned me to the floor. She was looking at me with such tenderness, such hope.
“Uh… hey…” I stammered.
“Come, come,” she gestured with her hand. “You’ve grown so tall. Every time I see you, you’re taller. Sit down, sit down.”
I walked toward her, almost hypnotized. She took my hand — her skin was so thin I could feel the bones beneath my fingers.
“You must be hungry. Have you eaten?”
“No, I…”
“Of course not. Young people never eat properly. I’ll fix you something.”
She stood up slowly, supporting herself on the arm of the chair. I instinctively tried to help her.
“Thank you, sweetheart. You’re so thoughtful — just like your grandfather.”
She led me into the kitchen, turned on the light, and began pulling things from the fridge. I stood there in my black hoodie and gloves, feeling like the stupidest criminal in the world.
“I’ve got some stew left from lunch. You’ll like it. I used those herbs you love so much.”
“Ma’am, I think that—”
“No ‘ma’am,’” she interrupted, waving a wooden spoon in the air. “I’m your grandma, Carlitos. What’s the matter with you today? Are you sick?”
She came closer and put her hand on my forehead.
“No fever. But you look tired. Studying too much?”
I nodded without thinking. She smiled.
“That’s good. Education is the most important thing. Your mother must be proud.”
She served the stew in a deep plate and set it in front of me on the table. The smell hit me — beef stew with potatoes and carrots. I couldn’t remember the last time I’d eaten something homemade.
“Eat, eat. It’s hot.”
I took off my gloves slowly and picked up the spoon. The first bite was… I don’t even know how to describe it. It was like tasting a memory I’d never had.
“Is it good?” she asked, sitting across from me with a cup of tea.
“Yes,” I murmured. “Very good.”
“I’m so glad. You know, sometimes I think you don’t come because you don’t like my cooking anymore. One gets old and… well, things change.”
“No,” I said quickly. “The food’s perfect.”
She looked at me with those small, kind eyes, and I felt something break inside me.
“Tell me, how’s college?”
I made something up — told her I was doing fine, that I was in my third year, that I was studying… I don’t even remember what. She listened carefully, nodding, asking questions. She asked about friends who didn’t exist, a girlfriend I’d never had, plans I’d never make.
I finished the plate, and she served me more. And then more again. I ate until my stomach hurt, but I couldn’t say no to her.
“Coffee?” she offered.
“Yes, please.”
While she was preparing it, I noticed the photos on the wall. A young boy, about my age, in different stages of his life. In one, he looked about ten; in another, a teenager. In none was he an adult.
“How long has Carlitos been gone?” I asked without thinking.
She froze in front of the stove. For a moment I thought I’d ruined everything — that she’d realized.
“Three years,” she said quietly. “Three years next month.”
“I’m sorry.”
“A motorcycle accident. So young, so full of life.” She turned toward me, wiping away a tear. “But you’re here now. That’s what matters.”
She handed me the coffee, and we sat in silence. A comfortable silence — the kind shared by people who’ve known each other for years.
“Ma’am…” I began.
“Grandma,” she corrected.
I swallowed.
“Grandma. I have to go.”
“So soon?” Her face fell. “Will you come next Friday?”
I should have said no. I should have left without looking back.
“Yes,” I said. “I’ll come.”
Her smile hit me like a punch to the chest.
I stood up. She walked me to the front door.
“Be careful, my dear. And bundle up — it’s cold out.”
“Yes, Grandma.”
She hugged me. She was so small she barely reached my chest. She smelled of lavender soap and that stew she’d made.
I stepped outside. The window I’d forced open was still ajar. I closed it from the outside before leaving.
That night, I slept in my usual room — but for the first time in years, I didn’t have nightmares.
💝To all grandmas I've loved before💝
Adapted from the story written by Alejandro Inti Bonomo, shared by our Facebook friend, Marjorie Bosworth, posted yesterday, Tuesday 14 October 2025.
End©Permadu
| Adapted by Fauzi Kadir Chief Editor
|
Final editing and brought to you by Fauzi Kadir CHIEF EDITOR |
(Semua Hak Cipta Terpelihara)
PUBLISHED UPON APPROVAL BY THE EDITORIAL BOARD
Visiting Permadu Malaysia is absolutely free and we operate with non-profit making objective. We hope you enjoy and feel happy visiting and reading every presentation from us.
If you have the generosity to support our operations and continuous activities of charity to those who are less fortunate, we would be grateful to accept sincere contributions from any individuals or organisations.
Contact us at permadu@gmail.com for further details and information. No obligation and no commitment.
.png)
Comments
Post a Comment