I thought I was giving my son Tom, his wife Lila, and my little grandson Max the best gift possible—$40,000 from my savings to help buy the house next door. They had promised, “So Max can grow up close to you.”
Max adored me. One night, he handed me one of his toy walkie-talkies and said sweetly, “So we can talk before bed through the wall, Granny.” I clipped it to my apron, not knowing that this tiny toy would uncover a betrayal I never imagined.
I still wash dishes at night to make ends meet. For months, Tom and Lila told me Max’s daycare cost $800, and I wired them the money faithfully. After a long shift, I heard static crackle on the toy walkie-talkie—then Lila’s voice: “She’s barely home. We should rent out her spare room and get the money.”
Tom’s reply made my stomach turn: “Once she pays for Max’s swim lessons, we can finally go on vacation.”
Then Lila’s laugh: “Good thing she doesn’t know daycare is only $500—we pocket $300 every month.”
My heart sank. My own family had been stealing from me.
I stayed quiet, waiting. A few days later, on my birthday, they arrived all smiles with a cake, pretending we were the perfect family. But I had prepared my own gift. As I raised my glass for a “toast,” my voice shook—not from age, but from betrayal. They thought they were celebrating me. Instead, I was about to reveal what I knew—and expose their lies in front of everyone.
