Abandoned, But Never Alone: How My Grandmother Replaced My Parents for 26 Years.

My parents are alive, but they were never really there

It wouldn’t be fair to say I don’t have a family. My mother and father are still alive. They each went their own way, living separate lives far away from mine — as if I had never truly been a part of theirs. Maybe they’re happy now, maybe they travel, work, love each other… or maybe they just tolerate one another out of habit. I don’t know.

All I know for certain is this: from the moment I can remember, the only person who has truly been there for me is my grandmother.

Everyone else calls her María Sánchez, but to me, she’s simply Grandma Mari.

She took me in when I was just six months old. My mother had stopped breastfeeding, and from that moment on, my grandmother stepped in and took full responsibility. She became my mother, my father, my safe place. I’m 26 now — and she’s still by my side.

To say I love her doesn’t even begin to describe it. She’s not just my family. She’s my best friend, my confidante, the only person I’ve ever fully trusted. We can sit together in the kitchen for hours, in silence or talking about everything and nothing. Sometimes we just share a small glass of anise when the heart feels heavy.

If there’s one thing I thank life for, it’s her — my grandmother.

She taught me everything I know

Grandma Mari never spoiled me, but she was never harsh either. She knew the world wasn’t going to be easy, and she wanted me to be ready for it.

She taught me how to sew buttons, fix holes in socks, and patch pants. She taught me how to cook soup, bake cakes, fry potatoes, and even how to make a meal on a gas stove when the power goes out.

She taught me not to complain. If it’s cold, put on another layer. If there’s no money, find a way. If someone leaves you, it means they were never meant to stay.

But most importantly, she taught me to love books.

Every chance she had — birthdays, New Year’s, or simply on a good day — she gave me a book. Over the years, I filled an entire bookshelf. And even though most people now read from screens, I still prefer the smell of paper. It smells like something real, something alive.

She also taught me what a true home should smell like.

A real home smells like fresh bread, warm milk, and cinnamon.

A real home is a place where someone is always waiting for you.

While my classmates returned from school to empty apartments, eating cold leftovers and doing homework alone, I came home to a warm house, with a hot meal on the stove — and my grandmother watching for me from the window, always smiling.

And for that, I will be forever grateful.

My dream

Since I was a child, I’ve had one dream: to open a small bookstore of my own.

I picture every detail — wooden shelves, cozy armchairs, the aroma of coffee and freshly baked pastries. People would come in, browse books, sip tea or hot chocolate, and feel at home.

I’d have a few little tables, and I’d serve the most delicious cakes using my grandmother’s recipes.

I know I’ll make it happen.

Because she always told me: “What matters most is doing everything with your heart.”

She’s happy I graduated from university, that I found a good job. I’m a teacher — I teach children, I pass on knowledge. But deep down, my heart still dreams of something else.

My grandmother dreams of seeing me married, with children. She wants to care for her great-grandchildren the same way she once cared for me. She’s already saved some of my old toys, waiting for the day she can pass them on.

And I want to make that dream come true — hers and mine.

There’s something I haven’t told her yet: I recently found out that my father sold the family land he inherited and kept all the money for himself. I didn’t get a single cent.

But my uncle — my mother’s brother — a humble man with hands of gold and a generous heart, offered to help me. He wants to invest in my bookstore, help with the renovations, with furniture, with everything I’ll need.

My grandmother has always treated him like a second son. Maybe that’s why he didn’t hesitate to step in and support me.

I want to see her happy.

I want her to walk into my bookstore one day and say, with pride: “My grandson built this.”

I want to see her sitting in one of those armchairs, reading a book I recommended, sipping tea I made for her, smiling the way only she knows how.

Because everything I am — and everything I hope to become — I owe to her.
To my grandmother.
My foundation.
My home.