My name is Annie. I’m sixty years old, and I raised my son, Thomas, on my own after losing my husband far too soon. He was only seven when his father passed away. Those early years were hard — endless shifts at diners, scrubbing floors until my hands were raw, coming home bone-tired but grateful that my little boy had food on the table and hope in his eyes.
Everything I did was for him. I never took vacations, never splurged on myself. When other mothers saved for retirement, I saved for his future.
They live next door in the Skyridge Apartments — a home I helped them buy five years ago. “So Max can grow up close to his grandma,” Thomas had said. I didn’t hesitate. I gave them forty thousand dollars from my retirement fund because family closeness, I thought, was worth more than any savings account.
And when they struggled with daycare costs, I stepped in again. “It’s eight hundred dollars a month,” Thomas told me last winter. I sent the money faithfully, month after month, no questions asked. Love doesn’t count pennies, I thought.
The Gift That Changed Everything
One afternoon, Max came running up to me with sticky little hands and an excited grin. In them, he held a tiny toy walkie-talkie.
“Grandma Annie! This is for you!”
I laughed and knelt down. “What’s it for, sweetheart?”
“So we can talk even when I’m in my room! Just push the button and say my name!”
My heart swelled. I tied it to my apron like it was the most precious jewel in the world. “I love it, darling,” I said.
That little device quickly became our bedtime tradition. Every night, just before he drifted off, I’d hear his sweet voice crackle through the speaker: “Goodnight, Grandma Annie.” It made the loneliness of my small apartment disappear.
