Every time my boys, Alex and Ben, came home from visiting their grandmother Eileen, they were sick. At first, I thought it was just bad luck or weak immune systems. My husband Nathan brushed it off, saying, “Kids get sick. It builds character.” But I couldn’t shake the feeling that something was wrong. One Saturday, after dropping them off, I realized I’d forgotten their bag and turned back.
When I got to Eileen’s, the house was strangely quiet until I heard her voice through an open window: “Ten more! And don’t you dare slow down!” I peeked in and froze. My little boys were nearly naked, shivering on the hardwood floor, doing push-ups in the freezing air. The windows were wide open, and Eileen towered over them with a stern glare.
I rushed inside, wrapping them in blankets. “What are you doing to them?” I demanded. “They need to be strong,” she said coolly. “The world isn’t kind. You’re too soft.” On the drive home, the boys admitted it had been going on for months sleeping with the windows open, harsh exercises, strict chores, and sometimes not enough food. Eileen called it a “training camp.”
When I confronted Nathan, expecting his outrage, he stunned me by defending her. “That’s how she raised me,” he said. “And I turned out fine.” I looked him straight in the eye. “Our children are not soldiers. They’re sick because of this. It stops now or we have a serious problem.” That night, as my boys slept safely in their beds, I sat in the dark, shaken but determined. Whatever it took, I would protect them even if it meant standing up to both their father and their grandmother.