The Grandmother Who Mistook Me for Her Grandson

I had been watching that house for three weeks. The old lady lived alone, barely leaving her apartment. I thought it would be an easy job—quiet, lonely, perfect for someone like me. That night, I quietly pried open the kitchen window. My hands no longer shook like before; after two years of this life, I had perfected my technique. My plan was simple: find money, jewelry, anything valuable, and leave.

I moved down the hallway when a soft voice froze me in place.

“Carlitos? Is that you, my love?”

A lamp clicked on. There she was, sitting in a worn armchair, blanket over her legs, smiling like she’d been waiting for me.

“I knew you’d come,” she said, eyes shining. “You always come on Fridays.”

I should have run. Anyone with sense would have. But something in her gaze rooted me to the spot. She looked at me with so much hope, so much love.

“I…,” I stammered.

“Come, come,” she beckoned. “Sit. You’ve grown so tall. Sit, sit.”

I approached as if in a trance. She took my hand—thin, fragile—and led me to the kitchen.

“You must be hungry. Have you eaten?”

“No, I—”

“Of course not. Young people never eat properly. I’ll make you something.”

She moved with effort, leaning on her armchair. I tried to help, instinctively, feeling more like a fool than a thief.

“I have some stew from lunch. You’ll love it. I added those herbs you like.”

I couldn’t speak. The smell—meat, potatoes, carrots—hit me like a memory I never had. I sat, removed my gloves, and ate the first spoonful. Warmth spread through me, a feeling I had forgotten existed.

“Is it good?” she asked.

“Yes,” I murmured. “Very good.”

She smiled, small and tender.

“How’s university?” she asked. I lied, inventing stories, friends, plans. She listened, nodding, asking questions with care.

We talked for hours—or maybe minutes; I lost track of time. I left that night with a strange new feeling, like I had been home for the first time in years.

The following Friday, I returned. “Carlitos?” she called.

“Yes, grandma. It’s me,” I said. And this time, I wasn’t lying.

Week after week, I came back. I didn’t steal. I helped her around the house, listened to stories about a grandson who had died in a motorcycle accident, and slowly, I realized something had changed in me. I had found something I’d never had before: a family, even if it wasn’t mine.

One evening, months later, I knocked on her door and found it open. She was gone, sitting peacefully in her chair, a faint smile on her lips. On the table, a note read:

“For my Carlitos—thank you for visiting me, for letting me see a grandson again. You brought light into these old days. Keep being kind.”

I sat there, silent, holding the note. Her kitchen smelled faintly of stew, as if she were still there. For the first time in years, I didn’t feel empty. I realized that kindness—even mistaken kindness—could change someone’s life. And sometimes, it could even change yours.

I closed the door gently, and as I walked away, I promised myself I would return every Friday—not as a thief, but as the grandson she had always wanted.