Mommy, I Don’t Need You:
About Grown-Up Kids and Immature Parents
Chapter 11
About Grown-Up Kids and Immature Parents
Chapter 11
Back when we still lived in the old apartment, this random woman showed up at our place.
She sat on the couch while I was finishing my soup. She had these massive plastic bags and a big, plain white box — no label, no branding, just a boring-ass box.
Once I was done eating, she called me over to sit next to her. She pulled a doll out of the box — not a cute Barbie or anything. Just some basic-ass, lifeless doll, exactly as boring as the box it came in. Then she looked at me and said, “I’m your grandmother. You remember me?”
And that’s how I found out that, besides my great-grandma (who I thought was my grandma), there was another one. She started showing up more often, bringing me gifts — always dull as fuck. Clothes, snacks, sweets — all of it boring, pale, forgettable.
I didn’t feel any big joy about this new grandma entering my life. Especially ‘cause she never stayed long. She’d pop in, pop out.
Then one day, we were suddenly at some summer place together. Not really a dacha — more like a preschool camp. Same teachers from the daycare I went to every morning. She worked there, so she came with me.
The Baltic Sea, pine trees, scheduled meals, daily walks — pure hell.
No great-grandma. No grandpa. And of course, no mom. But sometimes my dad showed up, ‘cause this grandma was his mom. Me and her started to connect a little, but I never really felt it. Not fully.
I liked her mainly ‘cause she brought candy (though it sucked), a banana, maybe an apple — she was into “healthy eating.” No cool imported chocolate like the other kids had. Nothing bright, nothing fun. Just sad fruit. Occasionally some berries. Berries were slightly better. Sweeter.
And most importantly — when she came, I didn’t have to go on those stupid walks with the rest of the kids. I’d get to hang out at her cabin till dinner. She’d show up, I’d be thrilled. Freedom from group activities? Count me in.
Grandma was short, thick, had wild curly black hair she always wrestled into a bun with bobby pins. She wore floaty dresses, shawls, beads. She looked like she didn’t belong there — and people treated her accordingly. No one liked her at that camp.
Her voice was soft, very proper, overly polite. No swearing — which I already knew plenty of, thanks to my mom.
My great-grandma and grandpa never cussed. But this one — she was “elegant.”
Or at least needed to be seen that way. College-educated, speech therapist, highly qualified. And she made sure everyone knew it. Say something wrong? She’d correct your grammar right away. First time: forgiven. Second time: eyebrow raise. Third? You’d get that “you talk like a peasant, just like your whole family — not that I’m surprised” look. Didn’t matter that I was six.
She’d take me for a few hours between nap time and dinner. We’d go walking, sometimes to the beach. Occasionally her friends stopped by — usually the daycare director. They’d chill outside, smoke skinny cigarettes, drink coffee. “Bad women taught me to smoke, but it’s very harmful,” she’d say — classic family habit: blame others.
Her cabin was the last one, right by a ravine. But it had a little patio with chairs and a table. There was a plastic bottle nailed upside-down to a tree — cut open on top to pour water in, and a twisted cap at the bottom to use as a faucet. Makeshift sink. Worked fine.
The cabin inside was dark, cold, unfriendly. Plain wood walls. No wallpaper, no warmth. A bed, a chair, a table. You could walk in with shoes on — which grossed me out.
One day I realized: things would be better if she took me in the morning too, not just the afternoon. Other kids got that — the ones whose parents worked at the camp. Like my best friend. She’d get picked up after breakfast, brought back for lunch, picked up again after nap time. Her mom was a cook or something. My grandma? Slept till 11. Morning pickup? Not happening.
But I had a plan. I’d just go to her cabin myself.
So I did. I was five. Snuck out after breakfast, ran straight to her cabin. Knew the route by heart. Playground, path, boom. She’s gonna be so happy to see me.
Door’s locked. I knock. Nothing. Knock again. Door opens. It’s her — in a nightgown, just outta bed, hair a mess. I’d never seen her like that.
“What happened?” she asked.
“Grandma, please take me with you!”
She couldn’t. She had “things to do.” Told me to wait. Handed me a banana and a candy through the door. Told me to go back to the group. Then closed it.
I walked back sobbing. Full meltdown by the time I returned. Teacher freaked out, told me never to do it again.
But I did. Every morning. Got my banana. Got my tears. Every time. Sometimes the door didn’t even open. I just wandered back crying.
That feeling — desperation, anxiety, that clawing panic in your chest — that became my baseline. Mom was there. Grandma was there. But they weren’t with me. They were always just out of reach. Physically there, emotionally vacant. I was on my own.
Not surprising that a few years later I developed childhood OCD. Mild at first. But by my teens? It blew up. Light switches, rituals, hours lost to compulsion. Got it under control by 25. But it never fully left.
Did anyone notice? “Well, they did warn me your dad wasn’t all there mentally…” That was the end of it. No therapy, no help. Later, I figured it out myself. Treated it myself. No one held my hand. Probably just thought I was nuts.
No one at camp liked Grandma much. Sure, they smiled and called her by her full name, but years later I figured it out: people hate feeling like shit around someone who thinks they’re better. Behind her back, everyone got reduced — “that nanny,” “that helper.” Not to her face, of course. She had a temper. But I got the side-eye. I was her grandkid.
One of the teachers was a bit of a sadist. I didn’t like eating back then — wild, I know. To make me eat, she’d shove a spoon down my throat. Literally. I’d gag. Grandma saw it once and stopped it. But I still remember that choking.
Surprisingly, I didn’t develop an eating disorder. Or did I? Between ages 8 and 13, I spit out nearly everything I ate into the toilet. Not anorexia, not bulimia. Just… something.
Another teacher openly hated me. I was scared of her boyfriend — this tall guy with a ponytail she weirdly brought on our walks. Who even has a ponytail? He did. He creeped me the fuck out. The other kids loved him. I didn’t. I remember watching him play with the kids while I stood in a bush — and pissed myself. After that, she hated me for real.
Then something interesting happened. I broke. I was done with being good. Done with waiting. I wanted something — and I was gonna take it.
She appeared in our group like some mythical creature. This Barbie. But not just any Barbie. Dark hair. Tan skin. Neon workout outfit. Leg warmers. Sneakers. What the fuck. She was beautiful. She looked like everything I wanted in a mom, everything I wanted to grow up to be. She looked like joy.
And she wasn’t mine.
She belonged to some other girl in the group. But I didn’t care. I didn’t hesitate.
I stole that Barbie.
I didn’t even think. I just took her. Hid her in Grandma’s cabin, under the bed. Didn’t dare play with her — I might lose her. I checked every day. Still there. My precious.
But two days later, Grandma met me holding the Barbie.
“Whose doll is this?”
“My mom brought it when she visited,” I said quickly.
She had visited recently. And brought candy. So maybe she brought this too?
“She didn’t say anything about a doll.”
Grandma called the city. Double-checked. Of course Mom hadn’t brought it. My cover was blown.
Next day, Grandma was pissed.
“Whose doll is this?”
“My mom gave it to me!”
I wanted that to be true. I wanted to believe I had a mom who could give me a Barbie like that.
“She said she didn’t.”
Of course she didn’t. And yeah, she could’ve lied — but for once, she chose to tell the truth.
Then came the drama. The speech. The moral lesson. That lying is wrong. Stealing is unforgivable.
She made me return it. In person. To the girl.
I did. It sucked. But the girl? She said I could play with the Barbie anytime I wanted. She was sweet. I still remember that.
I played with it for one night. Just me and her — Barbie the gymnast. Then I forgot about her.
Grandma thought she taught me that lying was shameful. But Mom’s influence was stronger. Lying wasn’t shameful — sometimes it was necessary. I didn’t stop lying. Not then. I did later, as an adult, because I chose to. Not because someone tried to shame me into it.
Later, when I was 30, I found that Barbie online. Still in the original box. Never opened. 1996. The neon outfit. The dark hair. The sneakers. She even came with a cassette. I had no way to play it. Technically, she wasn’t Barbie — she was Teresa.
But still. I wanted to be her.
That was our life at the dacha. Year after year. Same food, same walks. Beach days were the only thing that made me happy. But even that came with limits. 5-10 minutes in the water. Then change. Wet clothes = evil. No one taught me how to swim. All the other kids could. I was terrified of water. Eventually, I learned by dog-paddling. Still can’t swim without a float.
The dacha had nothing else to offer. Later, Grandma would say, “I spent my whole summer there for you!” Sorry, Grandma. Honestly? I wish I hadn’t gone either.
In the city, she sometimes took me to her place. She lived with her partner in a one-bedroom in a quiet part of St. Petersburg. No roommates. The decor was way nicer than ours. I loved it. She’d draw me a warm bubble bath — I could stay in as long as I wanted. Sometimes I’d faint from the heat, but they always brought me back. Cold Coke did wonders. After a while, they stopped letting me soak too long.
She fed me light meals — chicken soup, eggs, toast. No greasy grandma soups. I liked it. She set the table beautifully. Napkins, dishes, all fancy. She smelled like coffee and cigarettes. I liked that too.
I slept on two chairs pushed together. It felt magical. Later, as an adult, I went back to live there for a bit. Didn’t fit on the chairs anymore. The place felt hostile. I ran away to a guy I didn’t even love — because I had nowhere else to go.
As I grew up, I realized Grandma had a talent: saying very unpleasant shit in a very pleasant voice. My looks. My weight. My taste. My job. My friends. Nothing was ever good enough.
“You look like a priest’s wife with that part in your hair.”
“That lipstick makes you look like a pale mushroom.”
“You’re gaining weight. Look at your mom. You’ll be fat too.”
“What job is this? Working with musicians? What are you, an assistant? A servant?”
“Success means something else. You wouldn’t understand.”
She hated every decision I made. But if I did something decent? “You’re like me.
I made you who you are.”
Okay.
Years later, I cut her off. She wrote me a letter. Gave it to my mom to give to me.
Mom read it first, obviously. It’s still sitting with her.
I’ve never read it. I never will.
The grandma who once screamed “ABORT!” crossed a line no grandparent — no human — should ever cross.
She’s blocked.
And if there’s one thing I am sure of in this life — it’s that her number will stay blocked forever.
I didn’t feel any big joy about this new grandma entering my life. Especially ‘cause she never stayed long. She’d pop in, pop out.
Then one day, we were suddenly at some summer place together. Not really a dacha — more like a preschool camp. Same teachers from the daycare I went to every morning. She worked there, so she came with me.
The Baltic Sea, pine trees, scheduled meals, daily walks — pure hell.
No great-grandma. No grandpa. And of course, no mom. But sometimes my dad showed up, ‘cause this grandma was his mom. Me and her started to connect a little, but I never really felt it. Not fully.
I liked her mainly ‘cause she brought candy (though it sucked), a banana, maybe an apple — she was into “healthy eating.” No cool imported chocolate like the other kids had. Nothing bright, nothing fun. Just sad fruit. Occasionally some berries. Berries were slightly better. Sweeter.
And most importantly — when she came, I didn’t have to go on those stupid walks with the rest of the kids. I’d get to hang out at her cabin till dinner. She’d show up, I’d be thrilled. Freedom from group activities? Count me in.
Grandma was short, thick, had wild curly black hair she always wrestled into a bun with bobby pins. She wore floaty dresses, shawls, beads. She looked like she didn’t belong there — and people treated her accordingly. No one liked her at that camp.
Her voice was soft, very proper, overly polite. No swearing — which I already knew plenty of, thanks to my mom.
My great-grandma and grandpa never cussed. But this one — she was “elegant.”
Or at least needed to be seen that way. College-educated, speech therapist, highly qualified. And she made sure everyone knew it. Say something wrong? She’d correct your grammar right away. First time: forgiven. Second time: eyebrow raise. Third? You’d get that “you talk like a peasant, just like your whole family — not that I’m surprised” look. Didn’t matter that I was six.
She’d take me for a few hours between nap time and dinner. We’d go walking, sometimes to the beach. Occasionally her friends stopped by — usually the daycare director. They’d chill outside, smoke skinny cigarettes, drink coffee. “Bad women taught me to smoke, but it’s very harmful,” she’d say — classic family habit: blame others.
Her cabin was the last one, right by a ravine. But it had a little patio with chairs and a table. There was a plastic bottle nailed upside-down to a tree — cut open on top to pour water in, and a twisted cap at the bottom to use as a faucet. Makeshift sink. Worked fine.
The cabin inside was dark, cold, unfriendly. Plain wood walls. No wallpaper, no warmth. A bed, a chair, a table. You could walk in with shoes on — which grossed me out.
One day I realized: things would be better if she took me in the morning too, not just the afternoon. Other kids got that — the ones whose parents worked at the camp. Like my best friend. She’d get picked up after breakfast, brought back for lunch, picked up again after nap time. Her mom was a cook or something. My grandma? Slept till 11. Morning pickup? Not happening.
But I had a plan. I’d just go to her cabin myself.
So I did. I was five. Snuck out after breakfast, ran straight to her cabin. Knew the route by heart. Playground, path, boom. She’s gonna be so happy to see me.
Door’s locked. I knock. Nothing. Knock again. Door opens. It’s her — in a nightgown, just outta bed, hair a mess. I’d never seen her like that.
“What happened?” she asked.
“Grandma, please take me with you!”
She couldn’t. She had “things to do.” Told me to wait. Handed me a banana and a candy through the door. Told me to go back to the group. Then closed it.
I walked back sobbing. Full meltdown by the time I returned. Teacher freaked out, told me never to do it again.
But I did. Every morning. Got my banana. Got my tears. Every time. Sometimes the door didn’t even open. I just wandered back crying.
That feeling — desperation, anxiety, that clawing panic in your chest — that became my baseline. Mom was there. Grandma was there. But they weren’t with me. They were always just out of reach. Physically there, emotionally vacant. I was on my own.
Not surprising that a few years later I developed childhood OCD. Mild at first. But by my teens? It blew up. Light switches, rituals, hours lost to compulsion. Got it under control by 25. But it never fully left.
Did anyone notice? “Well, they did warn me your dad wasn’t all there mentally…” That was the end of it. No therapy, no help. Later, I figured it out myself. Treated it myself. No one held my hand. Probably just thought I was nuts.
No one at camp liked Grandma much. Sure, they smiled and called her by her full name, but years later I figured it out: people hate feeling like shit around someone who thinks they’re better. Behind her back, everyone got reduced — “that nanny,” “that helper.” Not to her face, of course. She had a temper. But I got the side-eye. I was her grandkid.
One of the teachers was a bit of a sadist. I didn’t like eating back then — wild, I know. To make me eat, she’d shove a spoon down my throat. Literally. I’d gag. Grandma saw it once and stopped it. But I still remember that choking.
Surprisingly, I didn’t develop an eating disorder. Or did I? Between ages 8 and 13, I spit out nearly everything I ate into the toilet. Not anorexia, not bulimia. Just… something.
Another teacher openly hated me. I was scared of her boyfriend — this tall guy with a ponytail she weirdly brought on our walks. Who even has a ponytail? He did. He creeped me the fuck out. The other kids loved him. I didn’t. I remember watching him play with the kids while I stood in a bush — and pissed myself. After that, she hated me for real.
Then something interesting happened. I broke. I was done with being good. Done with waiting. I wanted something — and I was gonna take it.
She appeared in our group like some mythical creature. This Barbie. But not just any Barbie. Dark hair. Tan skin. Neon workout outfit. Leg warmers. Sneakers. What the fuck. She was beautiful. She looked like everything I wanted in a mom, everything I wanted to grow up to be. She looked like joy.
And she wasn’t mine.
She belonged to some other girl in the group. But I didn’t care. I didn’t hesitate.
I stole that Barbie.
I didn’t even think. I just took her. Hid her in Grandma’s cabin, under the bed. Didn’t dare play with her — I might lose her. I checked every day. Still there. My precious.
But two days later, Grandma met me holding the Barbie.
“Whose doll is this?”
“My mom brought it when she visited,” I said quickly.
She had visited recently. And brought candy. So maybe she brought this too?
“She didn’t say anything about a doll.”
Grandma called the city. Double-checked. Of course Mom hadn’t brought it. My cover was blown.
Next day, Grandma was pissed.
“Whose doll is this?”
“My mom gave it to me!”
I wanted that to be true. I wanted to believe I had a mom who could give me a Barbie like that.
“She said she didn’t.”
Of course she didn’t. And yeah, she could’ve lied — but for once, she chose to tell the truth.
Then came the drama. The speech. The moral lesson. That lying is wrong. Stealing is unforgivable.
She made me return it. In person. To the girl.
I did. It sucked. But the girl? She said I could play with the Barbie anytime I wanted. She was sweet. I still remember that.
I played with it for one night. Just me and her — Barbie the gymnast. Then I forgot about her.
Grandma thought she taught me that lying was shameful. But Mom’s influence was stronger. Lying wasn’t shameful — sometimes it was necessary. I didn’t stop lying. Not then. I did later, as an adult, because I chose to. Not because someone tried to shame me into it.
Later, when I was 30, I found that Barbie online. Still in the original box. Never opened. 1996. The neon outfit. The dark hair. The sneakers. She even came with a cassette. I had no way to play it. Technically, she wasn’t Barbie — she was Teresa.
But still. I wanted to be her.
That was our life at the dacha. Year after year. Same food, same walks. Beach days were the only thing that made me happy. But even that came with limits. 5-10 minutes in the water. Then change. Wet clothes = evil. No one taught me how to swim. All the other kids could. I was terrified of water. Eventually, I learned by dog-paddling. Still can’t swim without a float.
The dacha had nothing else to offer. Later, Grandma would say, “I spent my whole summer there for you!” Sorry, Grandma. Honestly? I wish I hadn’t gone either.
In the city, she sometimes took me to her place. She lived with her partner in a one-bedroom in a quiet part of St. Petersburg. No roommates. The decor was way nicer than ours. I loved it. She’d draw me a warm bubble bath — I could stay in as long as I wanted. Sometimes I’d faint from the heat, but they always brought me back. Cold Coke did wonders. After a while, they stopped letting me soak too long.
She fed me light meals — chicken soup, eggs, toast. No greasy grandma soups. I liked it. She set the table beautifully. Napkins, dishes, all fancy. She smelled like coffee and cigarettes. I liked that too.
I slept on two chairs pushed together. It felt magical. Later, as an adult, I went back to live there for a bit. Didn’t fit on the chairs anymore. The place felt hostile. I ran away to a guy I didn’t even love — because I had nowhere else to go.
As I grew up, I realized Grandma had a talent: saying very unpleasant shit in a very pleasant voice. My looks. My weight. My taste. My job. My friends. Nothing was ever good enough.
“You look like a priest’s wife with that part in your hair.”
“That lipstick makes you look like a pale mushroom.”
“You’re gaining weight. Look at your mom. You’ll be fat too.”
“What job is this? Working with musicians? What are you, an assistant? A servant?”
“Success means something else. You wouldn’t understand.”
She hated every decision I made. But if I did something decent? “You’re like me.
I made you who you are.”
Okay.
Years later, I cut her off. She wrote me a letter. Gave it to my mom to give to me.
Mom read it first, obviously. It’s still sitting with her.
I’ve never read it. I never will.
The grandma who once screamed “ABORT!” crossed a line no grandparent — no human — should ever cross.
She’s blocked.
And if there’s one thing I am sure of in this life — it’s that her number will stay blocked forever.
And that’s better for me.
