The Gramma Incident of November 2021

Aidan Delance Mills, Beyond the System Writing Contest

It started off like any normal night—I was just chilling, playing Spider-Man, trying to unwind. Then my grandma walked in, yelling about something that didn’t make any sense. It was immediately obvious she was drunk. Her words were slurred, her tone aggressive, and without warning, she turned her anger toward my sisters.

We all ended up in one room, trying to get away from the chaos. We talked quietly about how unpredictable she was being, trying to make sense of it, trying to stay calm. But she followed us in and started shouting again—about the house being dirty, about how we were lazy and didn’t do anything. Her frustration spiraled fast, and then she said something that hit harder than the yelling: she didn’t want us there anymore. She told us to pack our things and leave.

At first, we didn’t take her seriously. We thought, there’s no way she actually means this. But then she started grabbing our stuff, throwing it into a red bag, and shoving it into her drawer like we were nothing more than clutter. My sister, thinking quickly, used a spare phone to call our parents. They told us to stay calm, to wait it out, to give her time to maybe cool down.

But instead of calming down, things escalated. She came back into our room, saying random things, and then out of nowhere, she threatened to hit my sister. I couldn’t just sit there. I told her, “You’re not gonna do it.” That’s when she grabbed the phone and called 911, falsely claiming that I had raised my fist to hit her.

The second we heard that, all of us jumped in to correct it—“That’s not true!” “He didn’t do that!”—trying to tell the truth before it got out of hand. Eventually, she hung up. My oldest sister texted our parents and told them to call the police themselves. They did.

At that point, I was just hoping it would all somehow blow over. I laid down, trying to convince myself it would be better in the morning. But it didn’t blow over.

When the police officer arrived, she immediately switched her attitude—suddenly she was calm, even nice, trying to play it off like nothing serious was happening. I think the officer saw through it, at least a little. I took that chance to quietly grab my PlayStation—one of the few things that helped me escape—and went back to the room.

Soon after, the officer called us into the living room and asked what was going on. We explained everything, honestly and clearly. But then he said something that honestly made me angry: “Well, guys, she’s the adult here. Just do what she says.” He started talking about how he had to obey his parents growing up too, like we were just being difficult or dramatic. But that completely missed the point. This wasn’t just some parent-teen conflict. This was something else entirely.

Just before he left, we mentioned our other grandma—the one who’s a teacher and someone we trust. He recognized her name, called her, and thankfully, she agreed to come pick us up.

We packed all of our things into trash bags. That part stung—it felt like we were being thrown out, not just asked to leave. The ride to her house was dead silent. Uncomfortable. None of us really knew what to say.

That night changed a lot. It wasn’t just the yelling, or the police, or the lies. It was the moment I realized how quickly home can stop feeling like home—and how sometimes, the people who are supposed to protect you are the ones you have to protect yourself from.