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MidReal Story
The Revenge of Grandmother
Scenario:Kellie has always resented her Daughter, having never wanted to be a mother at only 18 in the 80's. She had plans before she wanted to be a mother like backpacking across the UK.Soon after Marianne I'd born Kellies life choices now mede her unable to have any other kids, so she was stuck with Marianne, a defiant girl who only reminded Kellie of all she hadn't been able to do. Then at 21 Marianne had her own daughter and at 23 a son, the perfect family. This was too much for Kellie. She talks her Marianne into getting her tubes tied, them plots to have Mariannes kids taken so she can raise them as well as destroy her love life...but 16 years later Kellies granddaughter, now 18 can see Kellie's lies.and proves to be as defiant as Marianne and the 2 reconnect to Kellie's discontent. Marianne is overjoyed to see her daughter again, but fears what twisted plot Kellie may come up with next... And as for Mariannes son. Could her really have fallen for Kellie's games? It has been a long time after all...
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Kellie
She is a woman who regrets becoming a mother at 18. She is resentful, determined, and manipulative. After giving birth to her daughter Marianne, Kellie's plans for a carefree life were ruined. She resented Marianne for taking her husband and the freedom she once had. Over the years, Kellie harbored feelings of jealousy and isolation. Despite Marianne's happiness with her family, Kellie schemed to take them away. However, her plans failed when Marianne's daughter turned out to be her own granddaughter. Kellie is now dealing with the consequences of her actions and the realization that she is an isolated grandmother.
Marianne
She is Kellie's daughter and a devoted mother and grandmother. She is caring, determined, and resilient. After being raised by Kellie, Marianne formed a happy family with her husband and children. She faced her mother's manipulative schemes but remained steadfast in protecting her family. Upon meeting her longlost granddaughter, she was overjoyed but worried about Kellie's intentions. Despite being a grandmother herself, Marianne cherished her role and continued to care for her family while keeping a close eye on Kellie.
Unnamed Granddaughter
She is the daughter of Marianne and the granddaughter of Kellie. She is intelligent, defiant, and outspoken. At 16, she discovered the truth about her family history and reacted strongly against her grandmother Kellie's manipulative actions. Despite being young, she took charge of the situation by publicly confronting Kellie and reconnecting with her grandmother despite being wary of her. Her boldness helped bring unity to the family as she sought to build a relationship with her grandmother despite Kellie's past mistakes.
I was eighteen when I had my Daughter.
I never wanted to be a mother, and I didn’t take to it immediately.
In fact, I resented her.
She ruined all my plans.
Back then, in the 80s, in California, I was young and free, with my life ahead of me.
I wanted to travel, to see the world.
I wanted to go backpacking across the UK.
I wanted to go to university.
But none of that happened.
And it was all her fault.
She took that all away from me.
She took my husband, too.
He was mine, but she got the only family he would ever have.
I couldn’t even have any more children.
My tubes were tied when Marianne was three years old because of the complications I had with her birth.
I was stuck with her.
I sit alone in my living room, the only light coming from the lamp on the table beside me.
The photo album is old and dusty, and I blow off the dirt as I open it.
The pictures are all from 1981, the year she was born.
Each one shows her chubby little face smiling at the camera.
She’s wearing a yellow dress that my mother bought her.
Everyone cooed over her when they saw her in it.
They all thought she was so adorable.
They didn’t notice how depressed I was after she was born.
They didn’t notice how I struggled to cope with her constant crying and screaming.
They didn’t notice how I felt like I was drowning in responsibility.
All they noticed was her, and how cute she was in that yellow dress. My fingers trace the edge of a picture where she’s sitting on his lap, his arms wrapped protectively around her.
The same lap where I used to sit before she came along.
I slam the album shut, knocking over my glass of wine in the process.
I clean up the spill, my hands shaking as I wipe the red stain spreading across the beige carpet.
The setting sun casts long shadows through the living room windows, making the scattered photos look distorted.
Standing to throw away the wine-soaked paper towels, I notice dark clouds gathering outside.
Thunder rumbles in the distance.
I’m reaching for the lamp switch when there’s a loud crack from the transformer down the street.
The bulb flickers once, twice, then dies completely.
I sit in the darkness, feeling the weight of everything I've lost.
In the darkness, I hear footsteps creaking down the stairs.
The kids’ voices echo through the house.
"I’m hungry," my granddaughter whines, sounding just like her mother when she was that age.
"Me too," her brother says.
I grip the wine-stained paper towels tightly, trying to control my temper.
Through the shadows, I see their silhouettes come into view.
The perfect children Marianne had who have now been mine to raise for the past 15 years.
"Grandma, do you have any food?" she asks, her tone as demanding as her mother’s always was.
Her brother follows behind her, quieter and more obedient than she is, just like me compared to my sister.
I force a smile they can’t see in the darkness.
"I’m sure I do," I say, fumbling through the dark kitchen and yanking open cabinets and drawers.
The flashlight on my phone casts an eerie glow over the room.
"I was going to go grocery shopping today, but I forgot."
I pull out a box of mac and cheese from the back of a cabinet.
"This will have to do."
My granddaughter groans behind me.
"Mac and cheese? Really?"
I fill a pot with water, feeling my way around the sink by touch.
When I put it on the gas stove, it takes me a few tries to get the knob turned the right way.
The blue flames flicker to life, casting an eerie light over the kitchen.
My grandson stands silently in the doorway, watching me.
His sister keeps talking, complaining about how hungry she is and how she hates mac and cheese.
"Maybe we should call Marianne to come pick us up," she says, her voice rising in that whiny tone that drives me crazy.
My hand jerks, splashing hot water onto the stovetop.
"Marianne's not coming," I say, my voice sharper than I intended.
"Why not?" she asks, crossing her arms defiantly.
"Because she's gone," I reply, the words hanging heavy in the air.
Standing at the stove, I grip the pot handle tighter as my granddaughter's questions continue.
The mac and cheese bubbles in front of me, barely visible in the dim emergency light from the window.
When she demands to know what exactly is keeping her mother so busy that she can't even call her own children, I stir the pasta with deliberate slowness, crafting my response.
"Your mother has her own life now," I say, measuring each word.
"She's probably working late at that diner again."
My grandson accepts this explanation with a nod, but my granddaughter's silence feels dangerous.
She pulls out her phone, its blue light illuminating her skeptical expression.
My granddaughter's phone illuminates our faces in the dark kitchen when we hear a deafening crash from the front yard.
The mac and cheese pot sloshes as I jerk in surprise, scalding water splashing onto the stovetop.
My grandson flinches behind me while my granddaughter is already moving toward the sound, her defiant stride so like her mother's.
I grab her arm to stop her, but she yanks away.
Through the window, her phone light reveals the fallen oak branch that has crushed the hood of my car.
She turns to me with accusing eyes, as if I'm somehow responsible for this too.
I meet her gaze, feeling the weight of everything I've tried to hold together finally start to crack.
I grip the doorknob with shaking hands and yank it open, stepping into the howling wind.
Rain pelts my face as I hurry down the front steps, my feet splashing through puddles.
The oak branch sprawls across my car's crumpled hood, leaves thrashing in the storm.
Behind me, I hear the screen door bang open again.
My granddaughter's footsteps follow, defiant as ever.
Lightning flashes, illuminating the crushed metal of my only escape route.
I step closer to examine the branch in another flash of lightning, my clothes already soaked through.
My granddaughter pushes past me, her wet hair hanging in her face.
She reaches out to touch the branch, tracing something with her finger.
I lean in closer to see what's caught her attention.
There's an odd circular marking carved into the bark—a crude spiral with jagged lines radiating outward.
My granddaughter pulls out her phone again, the bright flash illuminating more identical markings along the branch that I hadn't noticed before.
I lean closer to examine the spiral carvings while rain pelts my back.
I try to keep my hands from shaking as I reach out to touch them.
The symbols look familiar, like something I've seen before.
In Marianne's old journals, the ones I'd hidden away years ago in my attic.
My granddaughter traces the spirals with her finger, then turns to me with a look in her eyes that's too much like her mother's.
"We need to get inside and dry off," she says, her voice firm.
I nod, but as we turn to head back toward the house, I catch her slipping her phone into her pocket.
No doubt she's planning to research these strange symbols later.
"Grandpa, do you think this has something to do with Mom?" she asks, her voice barely audible over the storm.
I hesitate, the memory of Marianne's frantic scribbles flashing through my mind.
"It's possible," I admit, feeling the weight of secrets long buried pressing down on me.
I lead my granddaughter back through the rain, our shoes squelching on the wet grass.
Inside, I grab towels from the hall closet while she wrings out her dripping hair.
My grandson has already heated milk in a pot for hot cocoa, stirring it carefully in the darkness.
The three of us huddle at the kitchen table, illuminated only by phone lights and occasional flashes of lightning.
My granddaughter pulls out her phone, showing the spiral photos while sipping her drink.
Her eyes never leave my face as she scrolls through the images, waiting for me to explain.
I sit rigid, hands clasped tightly together as she scrolls through the images.
The blue light casts harsh shadows on her face, making her eyes look sunken.
Outside, thunder rumbles, shaking the old house to its foundations.
She types furiously on her phone, comparing the spiral photos to various websites.
My grandson leans over her shoulder, both of them ignoring their cooling cocoa.
Suddenly, she gasps sharply and turns her phone toward me.
On the screen is a yellowed page from some medieval text.
The same intricate spirals line its margins.
My hands shake as I recognize the symbols—not just from the fallen branch, but from Marianne's old journals hidden in my attic.
My granddaughter's eyes narrow as she looks up at me.
She traces the spiral photos with her finger, her brow furrowed in concentration.
Then she pulls up a website on ancient Celtic symbols and compares the patterns side by side.
Suddenly, she gasps and zooms in on one section of the branch photo.
There, hidden within the spiral's curves, are tiny letters I hadn't noticed before.
"Blood of Morgan le Fay flows in our line," it reads.
My hands start shaking as I recognize the words—the same ones written in Marianne's hidden journal.
My grandson leans closer to look, but I snatch the phone away.
"Grandma, why would Mom write something like that?" my granddaughter demands, her voice a mix of confusion and urgency.
I swallow hard, the truth clawing its way up from the depths of my past.
"Because she believed it was true," I confess, my voice barely a whisper above the storm's roar.
I clutch my granddaughter's phone, its glow illuminating our faces in the dark kitchen.
Her eyes narrow as I explain how Marianne became obsessed with witchcraft and Celtic mythology in her early twenties.
She'd spend hours poring over dusty books in the library, convinced that our family was descended from Morgan le Fay herself.
I remember finding her scribbling those spiral symbols everywhere—on her journals, on the walls, even on her children's clothes.
She'd talk about how Morgan le Fay's blood ran through our veins, how we were destined for greatness.
My grandson looks at me with wide eyes.
"Was Mom sick?" he asks, his voice trembling.
I nod slowly, remembering how Marianne's delusions grew worse after she had children.
She'd become convinced that they were the key to unlocking our family's true power.
I found her performing rituals in the backyard at midnight, chanting and swaying under the moonlight.
My granddaughter's jaw clenches as I tell them about the night I found Marianne trying to burn down the house.
She'd been convinced that Morgan le Fay was guiding her, telling her to purify our family through fire. I swallow hard, remembering the fear that gripped me as I pulled Marianne away from the flames.
The look in her eyes—that wild, manic gleam—haunts me to this day.
"She wasn't well," I say carefully, choosing my words with precision.
"The things she believed... they weren't real. And sometimes, when people believe things that aren't true, they can do dangerous things."
My granddaughter's eyes widen still not believing me words... How does she always know when I lie
"You mean... Mom wasn't safe to be around?"
I nod slowly, feeling a weight settle heavy on my shoulders.
"Yes," I admit, my voice barely above a whisper.
"That's why your father and I made the decision to keep you two away from her. We wanted to protect you."
My grandson's voice breaks the silence, shaky and uncertain.
"But what if she was right? What if there's something more to our family?"
I take a deep breath, steadying myself as I look into their questioning eyes.
I sit at the kitchen table with my grandchildren, their faces illuminated by phone screens as we discuss Marianne's witchcraft obsession.
Mid-sentence, the howling wind outside suddenly dies.
The rain stops pelting our windows, and the thunder fades to silence.
My grandson walks to the window, pulling back the curtain.
Moonlight streams in, casting long shadows across our kitchen floor.
My granddaughter's skeptical expression softens as she notices small puddles of water on the floor beginning to evaporate, leaving behind spiral patterns in the moisture.
She reaches for her phone to take another photo, but the screen goes black.