The wall they were planning to capitalize on… once I was out of the picture. That night, I didn’t sleep. I just kept hearing those words.
Playing them over and over like a broken record. Saturday was my 60th birthday. They came over with a store-bought cake and plastic smiles.
Thomas kissed my cheek and said I looked tired. Lila suggested I get a cleaning lady. “Thoughtful,” I murmured.
Max ran to me, clutching a crayon drawing. “It’s you, me, and Rover!” he said proudly. “But Grandma doesn’t have a dog,” Lila corrected.
“Not yet,” Max whispered. “But she wants one.”
I smiled and poured coffee. “Let’s have cake,” I said.
“But first, a toast.”
They raised their cups. I raised mine. “To family.
To trust. To the people we love.”
“To family,” they echoed. I set my cup down slowly.
“I gave you forty thousand dollars to buy this place. I pay eight hundred every month for daycare. I’ve skipped meals, worn the same coat for years—because I believed love meant sacrifice.”
Lila’s eyes shifted.
“But it turns out daycare costs five hundred. And you’ve been pocketing the rest. Laughing behind my back.
Planning to rent my room. Planning to toss me into a nursing home when I can’t work anymore.”
Thomas opened his mouth, but I cut him off. “You called me a pushover.
And you weren’t wrong. I believed you needed me. But really, you just needed my money.”
I pulled out a checkbook from the kitchen drawer.
“This stops today.”
I wrote a check. $500. Nothing more.
“From now on, every extra dollar goes into a separate account for Max. And when he turns eighteen, he’ll get it directly from me. My door will stay locked.
My time? No longer free.”
Thomas’s face paled. Lila stood, indignant.
“You were spying on us?”
“No,” I said calmly. “Your son gave me a gift. That walkie-talkie gave me something better than plastic and static.
It gave me the truth.”
They left without touching the cake. That night, I stood at my sink washing dishes, the window reflecting a woman who had aged through hard work and heartbreak—but who, finally, looked awake. Later, as I dried my hands, the walkie-talkie crackled again.
“Grandma Annie? Are you there?”
“I’m here, sweetheart.”
“Daddy’s crying. Mommy’s mad.
Did I do something wrong?”
Tears welled in my eyes. “No, baby. You did something very right.”
“I did?”
“You gave Grandma the truth.
That’s the best gift anyone could give.”
Silence on the other end. Then: “You’ll still love me?”
“Forever and always.”
He clicked off with a soft “Good night, Grandma Annie.”
I clipped the walkie-talkie back to my apron. And I meant every word.
The rest of my life, and every penny I earn, belongs to the only person in that apartment who never asked for anything but love.
