You spend your whole life believing that if you give enough, love enough, sacrifice enough, people will cherish you. That blood will protect you. That family means something.
But sometimes, love just makes you the easiest one to use. I’m Annie, sixty years old. A widow since my son Thomas was seven.
I scrubbed floors, washed dishes, and stitched together every piece of our lives with tired hands and hope. I never remarried. Never took a break.
Everything I had, I gave to him. These days, I live in Skyridge Apartments. One unit down the hall from my son, his wife Lila, and their little boy Max.
I helped them buy that place five years ago. Gave them $40,000 from my retirement savings without blinking. Because I thought keeping family close was worth more than any number on a bank statement.
Max is four now. Soft curls, a raspy little laugh that tugs joy out of your bones no matter how tired you are. Last week, he ran into my kitchen holding one of his toy walkie-talkies.
“Grandma Annie,” he said, his sticky fingers proudly offering me the plastic. “Now we can talk when I’m in my room!”
I clipped it to my apron and kissed his head. “I love it, sweetheart.”
I still had my apron on Wednesday night after a ten-hour shift at Murphy’s Diner.
My feet were throbbing, my back stiff, but I made it to my recliner like always. I was just dozing off when the static from the walkie-talkie crackled. “Daddy, are you there?”
I smiled.
But then I heard voices. Lila’s laugh—sharp, dismissive. “She’s never home anyway.
We should rent out her spare bedroom.”
My heart slowed. “Six hundred a month, easy,” Lila went on. “She wouldn’t even notice.”
Thomas laughed.
“Mom’s always been too trusting.”
I gripped the walkie-talkie tighter, frozen. “And when she starts paying for Max’s swimming lessons too,” Lila continued, “we’ll finally take that trip to Hawaii.”
My stomach turned. “She thinks daycare costs $800,” she whispered with a snort.
“It’s only $500. We pocket $300 every month.”
Then Thomas: “And when she’s too old to be useful, we’ll put her in a nursing home. Rent out her place for some steady cash.”
The silence that followed wasn’t just quiet—it was hollow.
Cold. I sat in the dark, staring at the thin wall that separated our apartments. The wall I’d helped pay for.
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