I’ve lived long enough to see the world change in ways I never imagined. I witnessed the civil rights movement, prayed for boys sent to Vietnam, cried through 9/11, and now sit shaking my head at TikTok trends I can’t make sense of. Back when milk came in glass bottles and Elvis was still driving a truck, life felt slower—or maybe we were just better at noticing it.
Through it all, I raised three children in a house held together by thin walls but thick love. I worked long shifts at a diner, buried a husband I adored, and built a life that, while not glamorous, was full of pride and purpose. Every wrinkle and scar was earned with sacrifice and love. That’s why what happened with my granddaughter Miranda cut so deeply.
Miranda came into my care when I was already 61. Her father—my middle son—was lost in addiction, and her mother left when she was just six years old. Suddenly, I was raising a child again, older and slower but determined. I packed her lunches with little notes tucked inside. I read bedtime stories until my voice was hoarse. I whispered prayers at night, asking for her life to be brighter than mine ever was. From the moment she came to me, I saved for her future. Every coupon clipped, every dollar set aside, every pie baked for the church fundraiser added up. Over the years, I tucked away just over $42,000 in a lockbox at the back of my closet. It wasn’t a fortune, but it was enough to give her a chance—college, training, something to open doors she couldn’t open alone.
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