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.
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.
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