I’m Annie, 60 years old, a widow who raised my son Thomas alone. I gave him everything—my time, my savings, my love. I even gave him $40,000 to help buy the apartment down the hall from mine, just to stay close. One night, exhausted from work, I heard voices crackle through the toy walkie-talkie my grandson Max had given me. It was Thomas and his wife Lila. Laughing. Plotting. Saying I’d never notice if they rented out my spare room, lied about daycare costs, and planned to put me in a nursing home when I became “useless.”
I was heartbroken. On my birthday, they showed up with a fake smile and a cheap cake. But I had a toast of my own. I told them I knew everything. That I’d been lied to, used, and disrespected. Then I cut them off. No more extra money. Every spare dollar would now go to Max directly—when he’s old enough to understand what love really means. My time, my door, and my trust are no longer free.
Later that night, Max’s soft voice crackled through the walkie-talkie:
“Did I do something wrong?”
“No, baby,” I said. “You gave me the truth. That’s the best gift anyone could give.”
And it was.