At 87, I thought I’d seen it all — war, loss, heartbreak, even two strokes that left half my face numb. But nothing prepared me for the humiliation of being treated like a burden by the boy I raised as my own son.
My grandson, Tyler, came into my life the day he was born. His mother — my only daughter, Marianne — died giving birth to him. His father, unable to cope with grief, vanished within months. That left me, a tired baker nearing retirement, to raise a newborn on my own.
I fed him, bathed him, walked him to school, and stayed up nights sewing clothes I couldn’t afford to buy. Every ache in my bones was worth it when he smiled. I poured every ounce of love I had into that child.
But somewhere along the way, the boy I raised turned into someone I barely recognized.
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