I raised my son alone and gave him everything—including my retirement savings. But a toy walkie-talkie from my grandson revealed just how little that meant to the man I raised. Mothers, if you’ve ever sacrificed for your family, you need to hear this. You give your whole life, thinking love will be enough to make them love you back. But sometimes, love just makes you easy to take advantage of. I’m Annie. I’m 60. I’ve always believed family comes first. My husband died when our son Thomas was seven. I scrubbed floors, washed dishes, and worked double shifts to keep us going. My grandson Max is four. He has soft curls and a raspy giggle that melts your worst days.
A week ago, he held up a plastic walkie-talkie and said, “Grandma Annie, this is for you!” “So we can talk even when I’m in my bedroom! Just press this button and say my name!” I clipped it to my apron. “I love it, baby.” Through the wall, I heard Lila calling him home. They live next door. I helped them buy that apartment five years ago when Lila was pregnant—with $40,000 from my retirement fund. They had said, “So our boy can grow up close to his grandma!” Back then, I believed being close to family was worth more than money. Most evenings, I’m at the back of Murphy’s Diner, wrist-deep in soap and hot water.
When Thomas asked if I could help cover daycare, I didn’t hesitate. “It’s $800 a month,” he said. So I sent it. Every month. Even if it meant skipping meals. Because that’s what love does. Last Wednesday night, after a 10-hour shift, I collapsed into my recliner. Then—static. “Daddy, are you there?” Max’s sleepy voice crackled through the walkie-talkie. I smiled. But then I heard Lila’s voice—laughing. “Honestly, Tom, we should rent out her spare room. She’s never home.” “We could get $600 a month easy,” she added. Thomas chuckled. “Mom’s too trusting.” Lila went on: “Once she starts paying for swimming lessons, we can take that Hawaii trip. She’ll babysit for free.” “The daycare’s only $500,” she added. “She thinks it’s $800. We pocket $300.”
“And once she gets too old to help, we’ll move her to a nursing home and rent her place out.” “The best part?” Lila laughed. “She’ll say yes. She always does.” The walkie-talkie slipped from my hands. I stared at the wall I’d helped pay for. A wall they were planning to exploit. I didn’t sleep that night. Or the next. I just kept hearing their words. On Saturday—my 60th birthday—I invited them over. They brought a store-bought cake and plastic smiles. “Happy birthday, Mom!” Thomas said. Lila chimed in. “We should get you a cleaning lady.” Max handed me a crayon drawing and a flower. “That’s you, me, and Rover!” he said.
“We don’t have a dog, honey,” Lila corrected. “But Grandma wants one.” Thomas laughed. “She can barely take care of herself.” I stood. “Let’s have some cake. But first, a toast.” They raised their cups. “To family,” I said. “To the people we trust most.” “To family!” they echoed. “When your dad died, Thomas, I worked three jobs. I gave you $40,000 for this apartment. I pay $800 a month for Max’s daycare because I love him.” Thomas shifted in his seat. “But then I found out the daycare is only $500.” Their faces dropped. “You pocketed the rest. Every month. Behind my back. And planned to rent out my bedroom. And once I’m ‘too old to be useful,’ you’ll send me to a home.” Thomas stammered, “Mom, we can explain—” “On a toy walkie-talkie your son gave me? The truth found its way.” Lila said, “We needed the money.” “So you stole from me?” I pulled out my checkbook. “This ends now.
No more $800. No more free babysitting.” I wrote a $500 check. “Every penny I save now goes into an account—for Max. When he turns 18, he’ll get it. Directly from me.” “And my bedroom door will stay locked.” Silence. Max looked up. “Are you mad, Grandma?” “Not at you, sweetheart. Never at you.” “Can we still use the walkie-talkies?” “Every night, baby.” Thomas said, “Mom, please. We’re sorry.” “Sorry doesn’t refill my savings. Or undo the lies.” Tears filled his eyes. “You’re still my mom.” “I raised you. I fed you. I paid for your college. Your wedding. Your child’s birth. And you treated me like a fool.” He lowered his head. Lila said, “Annie, we needed—” “You needed money. Not me.” I cleared the table. The way I always do. But this time, it felt different. “I raised you to be honest, Thomas. Your father would be ashamed.” He whispered, “Don’t say that.” “Then don’t give me a reason to.” They left without another word. Later that night, the walkie-talkie crackled. “Grandma Annie, are you there?” “I’m here, baby.” “Daddy’s crying. Mommy’s mad. Did I do something wrong?” “No, sweetheart. You gave me the best gift.” “The walkie-talkie?” “The truth.” “Will you still love me?” “Forever and always. That’s what grandmas do.” “Goodnight, Grandma Annie.” “Goodnight, my precious boy.” I clipped the walkie-talkie to my apron. I’ll open that account tomorrow. For Max. They say love makes you blind. But betrayal opens your eyes. And love without respect? That’s not love at all. After 60 years, I finally understand that.