When my son’s new wife, Whitney, started dropping my grandkids off without warning, I grew concerned. Then Jaime, my grandson, told me Whitney fed them cold SpaghettiO’s with hot dog water and refused to help with homework because her nails were drying. My heart broke.
When Mark, my son, picked them up, I voiced my worries, but he dismissed me. So, I decided to investigate.
The next day, I went to their house unannounced. The place was a disaster — dirty dishes, sour milk, toys everywhere, and a crumpled school paper with a failing grade. Whitney tried to act casual, but when I mentioned the kids’ complaints, she broke down, sobbing that she had no idea how to be a parent and felt like a failure.
Whitney wasn’t cruel; she was overwhelmed and terrified. I softened, remembering how lost I’d felt raising Mark alone.
“You don’t have to fake it anymore,” I told her. “We’ll figure this out together.”
The next day, I came back with groceries and patience, ready to teach her how to cook, pack lunches, and bring stability to the home. Most importantly, I showed her it’s okay to ask for help before you drown.
