My name’s Blanche, and I turned 80 last spring. I lived in a cozy room at my granddaughter June’s house, filled with memories and keepsakes from my life.
One sunny Saturday, June burst into my room. “We’re taking the kids to the zoo. Need anything?” she asked. I smiled and waved her off, thinking about how I had raised her after her parents died and sold my house to pay for her college.
Life was quiet—until I met Norman at the community center. Kind, funny, always with a camera around his neck. Soon, our conversations became the highlight of my days. I hadn’t felt love like this in decades.
One evening, I decided to tell June. “I met someone… Norman. He asked me to marry him,” I said.
June’s reaction stunned me. “Grandma, you’re 80. You’re too old for weddings. And Norman can’t live here.”
The next morning, she packed my things by the front door. I was heartbroken, betrayed by the one I’d raised.
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