Grandma’s in Prison
with No Hope of Parole
by Peggy Gerber
Grandma didn’t always live in prison. For forty years, she and Grandpa lived in a three-bedroom brick house with towering lemon-yellow sunflowers in the front and a well manicured green lawn in the backyard. Their two-car garage was full to bursting with bicycles and kiddie pools and all sorts of wonderful toys. My cousins and I loved coming over. Grandma’s house was my happy place.
When I was a kid, Grandma would babysit me and my brother Miles every Saturday. Each week, Mom would drive us over, and Grandma would meet us at the door with a big hug and kiss. Afterwards, she’d put her hands of my cheeks and say, “Leah, you’re more beautiful every time I see you.” She’d compliment Miles on how tall he was getting then shoo us into the living room to play until lunchtime. One of our favorite things about Grandma’s house was that she had the Disney Channel and let us watch as many cartoons as we wanted. There were no restrictions on screen time in her house.
Around noon, Grandma would shout out our names, and Miles and I would tumble into the kitchen to find her at the stove flipping banana-chocolate chip pancakes. The aroma of the sizzling batter was intoxicating, and our stomachs growled with impatience as we set the table and grabbed the can of whipped cream out of the refrigerator.
With drool dripping down our chins, we would plop down on our chairs and take turns squirting the creamy confection directly into our mouths. Grandma pretended not to notice, but I could tell from her smile that she had been watching us. She knew how to make me feel like I was the most important person in the world.
And now Grandma is living in a six- by eight-foot prison cell and eating institutionalized meals. Every time I think about it, I feel like my head is going to explode. My grandparents never did anything wrong; it was just a matter of bad timing. You see, Grandpa was diagnosed with metastatic colon cancer in 2032, the year Medicare ran out of funds.
Like most seniors, my grandparents scrambled to get alternate health insurance but, by then, the premiums had skyrocketed to an unaffordable rate. All the money my grandparents had saved their whole lives was gone. Their hopes and dreams for retirement had vanished like an ice cube in a cup of scorching hot tea.
Grandma kept their financial ruin a secret so the family wouldn’t worry. I tear up whenever I think about how she had struggle with that awful reality while taking care of Grandpa at the same time.
It was because of her thoughtfulness, though, that when Grandpa’s doctor declared him to be cured, we were able celebrate with worry-free hearts. Grandma threw a big family party in her backyard with balloons and a chocolate fountain. Mom made her famous lasagna, Aunt Jill brought a six-foot hero sandwich, and I baked a three-layer chocolate cake with the word survivor written in pink frosting. We brought out a karaoke machine and played Grandpa’s favorite oldies as we took turns singing and twirling Grandma and Grandpa around on the lawn.
It was a day full of joy, and less than twenty-four hours later, my grandparents sold their house. They used most of the money to pay off bills and had just enough left for a security deposit on an apartment.
The first time I visited my grandparents in their cramped studio apartment, I burst into tears. It was so tiny, and all traces of their earlier life was gone. They had sold most of their stuff, including all the artwork they had so lovingly collected throughout the years. Their walls were bare save for a few pictures of the family.
It was so pitiful I fell into Grandma’s arms and sobbed like a baby, my snot pouring out all over her dress. She rubbed my back and let me cry for a while, holding me tightly. When I was done, she wiped away my tears and said, “Leah, honey, having Grandpa alive and healthy is all I need.” She then took my hand and brought me into the small kitchen to make banana-chocolate chip pancakes.
At the time, I thought this was as bad as things could get, but I couldn’t have been more wrong. Just a year later, there came an even bigger blow. Social Security had gone completely bankrupt. Without that monthly check, my grandparents could no longer afford their rent.
It was a terrible time for Grandma. Not only did she have to struggle to figure out what to do next, she had to deal with the news that some of her good friends had taken their own lives. I never saw Grandma cry before, but now she was going to funerals and crying all the time. It crushed me to see her like that. My mom offered that she and Grandpa could move in with them, but that was a terrible plan. My parents had just downsized to save money, and their new place was not big enough for two more adults. It would have been miserable for everyone.
As desperation set in, Grandpa developed a weird nervous cough that sounded like machine-gun fire, and Grandma forgot how to smile. My stressed-out parents and aunts and uncles spent hours on the phone struggling to figure out a plan. With Social Security and Medicare no longer in existence, they were terrified about their own futures; nevertheless, they decided they would all pitch in and give my grandparents an allowance.
Though it seemed to be a reasonable solution, when Mom went to Grandma’s apartment and handed her an envelope with money, Grandma’s eyes caught fire. She stomped her foot in refusal and shouted, “No, April, I will not allow my children to give me the money they need for their own retirement. I won’t take it.” That’s how my grandparents ended up in jail.
A few weeks later, when Grandma’s security deposit ran out, she and Grandpa joined the thousands of seniors who were setting up tent colonies and living on the streets. The whole country was outraged. There was a nationwide protest, and my cousins and I marched on Washington and carried picket signs.
Before long, many of the rallies had turned ugly, and the police came in with pepper spray and rubber bullets. Miles was shot in the leg, and his femur was broken in two places. He had to have pins put in. Eventually the National Guard was called, and the government came up with what they considered a very excellent plan.
The idea was to move the seniors into the many prisons and immigrant detention centers that had closed after the mass deportations of 2025-26. There was an abundance of space available, and it seemed like the perfect solution. Within weeks, the institutions were sanitized, and seniors started moving in.
My mom and I went with my grandparents to help them settle in and gasped in horror when we saw Grandma’s prison cell. I tried not to sob, but I couldn’t help it, and Mom actually slid to the ground. Grandma sighed as she grabbed Mom by the arm and helped her up. She gave her a quick hug and murmured, “Don’t worry, April. Daddy and I will be okay.” Then, in typical Grandma fashion, she placed a hand on each of our backs and shoved us out the door. “Don’t return until you’ve calmed down,” she told us sternly. “You’re making everybody here depressed.”
What I didn’t realize at the time was that my grandparents were among the lucky ones. Grandpa was a retired plumber, and Grandma was a therapist; their skills would be put to use many times. They were issued their own personal cell and were able to hang up a curtain to maintain privacy. They plastered their cement wall with family pictures and greeting cards and did their best to make it feel like home.
Unlike my grandparents, most residents in the prison had to sleep together fifty to a room in what resembled army barracks. The two restrooms they shared had four stalls each and a lengthy line to get in all times. Each of the residents was allowed one suitcase, and they had to figure out how to pack their entire lives into it. Grandma said that, during the first week, cries and moans of sorrow were bouncing off the walls twenty-four hours a day.
Although the idea of sending seniors to prison was appalling to most, overall, nobody went cold or hungry, and the streets were clean again. The institutions were issued new official names such as Sunshine City and Heartfelt Haven and, little by little, the media moved on to other news stories. The government crafted propaganda messages which regularly popped up on people’s tv and social media. There were photos of smiling seniors having fun in the rec room and enjoying their meals together in the cafeteria. It was all staged. Never was there a photo of the cramped sleeping areas or crowded bathroom conditions.
Grandma said one of the worst parts of the situation was the lack of medical care. They were seniors, after all, and had a lot of health problems. Though there was a doctor on the premises of each of the prisons, you could see one only in an emergency. If it turned out you needed to see a specialist, God help you, because you would have to figure out how to pay for it.
The people in the prison depended on medical bots for the bulk of their healthcare. These metallic bots circulated throughout the prison and could evaluate a person’s blood pressure, oxygen saturation, pulse and even take a blood sample when necessary. Depression screenings were part of each exam and, within the first year, the majority of residents were taking anti-depressants. Sleeping pills were dispensed like candy.
To help keep up morale, Grandma led group therapy sessions five days a week. People would come to her groups to talk about what was bothering them, knowing it was a safe space. They could bitch about the lack of privacy, rage about the whole situation or just sit and cry if they wanted. She encouraged people to download mental health apps and taught them how to interact with AI therapists for the best results. Sometimes, in place of therapy, Grandma would organize protests demanding better food and better medical care. Grandma was branded a troublemaker, and I couldn’t have been prouder.
I began visiting Grandma and Grandpa every Sunday, and I always brought special home-baked treats. At first, I was so stressed coming to the prison I’d have to do ten solid minutes of deep breathing before I could enter.
After a while, though, I didn’t mind it at all. I got to know all of Grandma’s friends, and every time I walked in they would shout, “Leah’s here here, Leah’s here,” and I’d get a giant group hug. I felt like a celebrity. After thirty seconds or so, Grandma would pull her friends off me and wag her finger at them as if they were naughty children. We’d then go to her cell and share some snacks. Grandma’s best friend, Claire, often joined us.
I liked Claire, but she could be really annoying. Her favorite topic of conversation was her grandson, Ben, and she talked about him incessantly. Every week I’d have to hear the same old stories of how handsome and funny he was and how he had graduated from a top university. I’d always nod my head, pretending to care but then, one day, Ben showed up, and I discovered he was an incredibly kind person as well.
On the day I met him, he was wearing a sweater his grandma had knitted for him. It was horribly ugly with a misshapen dog on the front, and it was way too big, but I knew he wore it to make Claire happy. I always had a soft spot for guys who loved their grandmas.
When Ben and I announced our engagement in the prison cafeteria, the whole lunchroom erupted into cheers. I walked around getting hugs as I held up my finger to show off the diamond ring that once belonged to Claire. Our courtship had been like a team sport with the whole prison rooting for us. Both our grandmas beamed as they walked to the front of the room and gave a joint lecture on what it takes to become a great matchmaker.
Ben and I got married in city hall with just our parents and siblings in attendance. Big weddings were expensive, and we had to watch every penny. Afterwards, we had a small reception in the prison cafeteria with cake and coffee. I bought our grandmas matching dresses with sequins for the occasion, while Ben took care of all the frustrating paperwork for the permit. When I look back at the pictures, I smile and cry at the same time.
This was the new normal, and people got used to the idea that one day they might have to move into a prison cell. As time passed, and our grandparents got older, my grandpa’s health began to deteriorate. His arthritis grew worse, and he could no longer help with the plumbing. When he and Grandma were instructed to move into the barracks, I stepped up and became the prison’s recreation director. It was a low-paying job, but it gave me some power, and my first order of business was granting my grandparents the privilege of remaining in their own cell.
Ben ended up taking a job as the financial manager of the prison, and he spent his days writing grant proposals and seeking donations to make improvements to the living conditions. He especially targeted the billionaires who received the many tax breaks that had led to the destruction of Social Security in the first place. They turned out to be the biggest sponsors, not because they felt guilty but because it gave them even huger tax breaks.
I used some of the money Ben was able to secure to set up a virtual-reality studio. Though the people in prison were too poor to travel, they could now take virtual tours of the Louvre Museum in Paris, see the changing of the guard in London or go on a lion safari in Kenya. I established art classes and exercise classes and organized Friday night dances, while Ben worked his butt off to maintain the funding. Together, we made the prison a much more bearable place.
Meanwhile, folks my age were working two to three jobs each in order to save for retirement, and everybody was exhausted all the time. We were known as Generation-EX. Sometimes, when Ben and I got home at night, we’d stare at each other over dinner because we were too tired to talk. Like many people our age, we had made a pact not to have children, and the birth rate dropped to an all-time low. Having kids was a luxury most could not afford.
As I look to our future, I think Ben and I will be okay. We’re saving every cent we can, and we figure that unless one of us gets really sick, we’ll be able to stay in our home long after retirement. Or maybe we’ll have dropped dead from exhaustion before then. The good news is that the prisons will all be shut down seventy-five years from now. Nobody will have to suffer anymore. Any senior citizens that are still around will have been born to the top 1% of the wealthiest, so there will be no need to provide public accommodations.
Though ten years have passed since my grandparents sold their house, I still think about it often. It used to be my happy place. Despite the sorrow, though, I remain truly grateful that, even with all her losses, Grandma has managed to keep her dignity and her smile. She still knows how to make me feel like the most important person in the world, and I love her so much. Prison cannot take that away from her.
Copyright © 2026 by Peggy Gerber
