I recently faced a situation that made me reflect on many things—parenting, the roots of violence, and helping those who live nearby.
I live with my daughter in a three-story building with few neighbors; we all know each other. On my floor lives a 90-year-old woman, Elizabeth. She’s very quiet, polite, and caring. A couple of times, I even asked her to watch my daughter when she was sick. Elizabeth didn’t talk much about herself or her family. She only shared that she worked in a factory in the rear during the war and then as a storekeeper until retirement. A sweet lady and a good neighbor. But six months ago, her grandson moved in with her. I was surprised at first, as I thought she had no relatives—she lived alone, no one visited, and she never mentioned children or grandchildren. It turned out her son is an alcoholic, doesn’t communicate with her, and offers no help. It got so bad that child services took his teenage son away. Elizabeth was the only relative left.
She was thrilled about her grandson’s arrival and initially talked about him a lot, but gradually, I saw her less and less. I didn’t suspect anything until my daughter mentioned hearing terrible screams through the wall. I went to Elizabeth’s, but she denied everything. One evening, I heard her screaming in a voice that wasn’t hers, along with banging and crashing. I called the police, but no one opened the door. For about four days, the noises stopped, but then the abuse started again. Hearing those screams was unbearable, and I realized I had to do something to save her.
For a week, I tried to catch Elizabeth in the hallway or courtyard to talk privately, and finally, I succeeded. She was terrified and revealed that her grandson was hitting her on the head, setting her hair on fire, and beating her with a mop. He’s already on record and isn’t attending the boarding school where he was placed. I convinced her that this couldn’t go on and that she needed to contact child services. We parted ways, but that same day, the beatings resumed. Elizabeth got scared again and didn’t call child services. The police came but, once again, no one opened the door. After a few days of silence, I had to call the police again because the sounds from her apartment suggested the situation had worsened. This time, Elizabeth opened the door, covered in blood—her grandson had hit her on the head, splitting her forehead. With my help, she filed a report, and child services took the boy to an orphanage.
Elizabeth is in the hospital—her body is covered in bruises, she has internal injuries, and broken ribs. If she had continued enduring the abuse, her grandson might have killed her. He’s still in the orphanage, being investigated by the juvenile affairs commission, and he faces jail time. But the most shocking thing is that he’s begging to return, sending messages through child services that he wants to live with his grandmother. I’m trying to convince Elizabeth not to agree, but I’m afraid she’ll take him back.
I don’t know how Elizabeth’s son fell so low, but the situation with her teenage grandson is sadly predictable. You can see no one took care of him; he likely faced abuse and lived in poor conditions. This doesn’t excuse his cruelty toward his grandmother or nearly killing her, but he didn’t become this way for no reason. This family’s story, unfortunately, is all too common. Terrible circumstances, neglect, poverty, and moral decay lead to these kinds of “grandchildren.”
I truly hope Elizabeth can leave her grandson in the orphanage, despite his pleas. I hope they’ll help the boy and keep him from ending up in prison or becoming like his father. And I hope my daughter and I never again hear those horrifying screams through the wall.
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