Dear readers, please hear me out. I write to you with worry and sorrow, hoping someone might advise, comfort, or guide me. I’m a grandmother, 64 years old—not some doddering old woman, not senile, though that’s how too many see pensioners these days. I’ve got a university degree, spent decades teaching, colleagues still ask for my counsel… but now I feel helpless as a child.
I have a grandson—Oliver. My light, my heart. He’s 14, and for three years now, I’ve raised him alone. My daughter Emily and her husband went abroad for work before the pandemic—Greece first, then Spain. They visit once a year, for a fortnight at most. They send money regularly, stay in touch, video call.
They left Oliver with me when he was just eleven. A quiet, polite boy, sensitive and kind. I adored him, tried to be his grandmother, mother, friend. We read together, went on walks, talked before bed. It was good. Until, one day, everything changed.
We got him a computer at his parents’ request. “For his studies,” they said. My nephew set it up. Oliver was ecstatic. I was happy for him—we live in a small village outside Oxford, and not everyone has such things.
But it wasn’t long before I realised my mistake. My grandson vanished before my eyes.
He lost interest in everything he once loved. No longer asked for help with homework, didn’t care about baking, stopped reaching for me. Became withdrawn, snappy.
Then—just sank into the screen. Morning to night, sometimes even when I woke at some hushed hour, he’d be there, eyes fixed on the monitor. I’d try to talk—silence, or a sharp “leave me alone.”
I’d make his favourite cinnamon toast with strawberry jam—only to find it untouched hours later, cold. He won’t sit at the table, says he’s not hungry, “will eat later.” He’s grown thin, face pale, eyes bloodshot, dark circles like some overworked clerk.
He’s like a ghost now. A spectre of his own childhood.
I tell Emily and her husband. They say, “All kids are like that now, don’t fret. It’s the internet generation.” Maybe so, but must we stand by watching a child fade?
He won’t go outside. No friends visit, only voices through a screen. Sport might as well be a foreign word. No plea, no offer of a walk gets through. I fear he’s addicted. Not just “fond of computers,” like they say on telly, but truly *hooked*.
I tried restricting access. He threw tantrums—shaking, furious. I set passwords, but he bypassed them. His tech skills outstrip mine. Control slips through my fingers.
He’s not cruel. Just… gone. Lives beside me, but in some other world. And I can’t reach him.
I lie awake at night. Cry into my pillow. Terrified he’s missing his life. Losing himself. That soon, it’ll be too late.
I don’t know where to turn. No psychologist in our village. The GP—I won’t go without his parents’ say, and they think I’m overreacting. School doesn’t care—his marks are passable, so “no trouble here.”
But the trouble’s right in front of me. Every day. Every night.
Please, if you’re reading this—give me guidance. Don’t turn away. I don’t ask for miracles. Just want my Oliver back. The boy who laughed when we walked for ice cream. Who hugged me before bed. Who once believed life wasn’t just a screen.
I’ll do anything to keep from losing him completely. Just—don’t stay silent. Tell me what to do. I’m begging you.