I raised my son on my own. I gave him everything I had—even my retirement savings. I believed that love alone was enough, that my sacrifices would be noticed, remembered, and eventually returned. But a little plastic walkie-talkie from my grandson revealed just how little that really meant to the man I raised. Hi, I’m Annie. I’m 60 years old, and all my life, I’ve believed family comes first. When my husband passed away, Thomas was just seven. I scrubbed floors, washed endless dishes, worked double shifts—anything to make sure there was food on the table and hope in our…
I raised my son on my own. I gave him everything I had—even my retirement savings. I believed that love alone was enough, that my sacrifices would be noticed, remembered, and eventually returned.
But a little plastic walkie-talkie from my grandson revealed just how little that really meant to the man I raised.
Hi, I’m Annie. I’m 60 years old, and all my life, I’ve believed family comes first.
When my husband passed away, Thomas was just seven. I scrubbed floors, washed endless dishes, worked double shifts—anything to make sure there was food on the table and hope in our home.
Now, Max, my grandson, is four. With his soft curls and raspy little giggle, he can melt the hardest day. A week ago, he ran up to me with sticky little fingers wrapped around a tiny toy walkie-talkie.
“Grandma Annie, this is for you!” he said.
“What’s it for, honey?” I asked.
“So we can talk even when I’m in my room! Just push the button and say my name!”
I tied it to my apron. “I love it, darling,” I said.
He squeezed my legs tight, and through the thin wall between our apartments, I heard Lila calling him inside. We live next door in Skyridge Apartments. I helped them buy that place five years ago, back when Lila was pregnant with Max.
“That way, our little one can grow up close to his grandma,” Thomas had promised, eyes full of hope.
I gave them $40,000 from my retirement fund. It was a lot, but I didn’t hesitate. Family closeness was priceless.
Most nights, you’d find me at Murphy’s Diner, scrubbing dishes until my hands bled. When Thomas asked me to help with Max’s daycare, I said yes without a second thought.
“Mom, it’s $800 a month,” he said last winter. “We’re struggling.”
I sent the money, month after month. No exceptions. Because Max deserved the best, even if it meant skipping meals or working extra shifts.
Then last Wednesday happened.
After a ten-hour shift, I collapsed into my recliner, exhausted and aching. I closed my eyes.
Static crackled from the walkie-talkie.
“Hey Daddy, are you there?” Max’s sleepy voice floated through.
I smiled.
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