Now, you might think I’m just some bitter old woman, but let me tell you how we got here. Because this story starts six months ago, when my granddaughter Emma casually mentioned she wanted the most epic sweet 16 ever. At sixty-seven, I’ve learned to spot manipulation from a mile away.
But when it comes from your own blood—wearing braces and batting those Williams-family blue eyes—well, even tough old birds like me can get our hearts twisted around little fingers. “Grammy Dot,” Emma had said, curling up next to me on my living room couch. “All my friends are having these amazing parties.
Madison’s parents rented out the entire country club. Sophia’s having a winter-wonderland theme with real snow machines.”
I should have seen it coming when Emily, my daughter-in-law, suddenly appeared from the kitchen carrying tea she’d never offered to make before. “Emma, don’t bother your grandmother with party talk,” Emily said sweetly, setting down cups with the kind of careful precision that screamed calculation.
But Emma pressed on. “I just want something special, something that shows how much our family means to each other.”
The way she said family made my chest tight. After my husband Robert died two years ago, these moments with Emma had become everything to me.
Michael was always busy with work. And Emily—well, Emily tolerated me at best. “What did you have in mind, sweetheart?” I asked, already knowing I’d moved from observer to participant in whatever game was being played.
Emma’s eyes lit up. “Well, there’s this venue called Riverside Gardens. They do these incredible themed parties.
The space rental is $8,000, but… Grammy, imagine dancing under fairy lights by the river.”
Eight thousand. I felt Emily’s sharp gaze on me, waiting. “And then there’s catering,” Emma continued.
“Jeppes does these amazing Italian spreads. Everyone says they’re the best.”
“How much would all this cost?” I asked carefully. Emma bit her lip.
“Maybe twenty thousand. I know it sounds like a lot, but, Grammy, this is my sweet 16. It only happens once.”
Twenty thousand.
My Social Security and Robert’s pension were comfortable, but $20,000 was serious money. Still, looking at Emma’s hopeful face, I felt myself wavering. “Let me think about it,” I said.
The story doesn’t end here — it continues on the next page.
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