Growing up, my parents often declared our family was destined for greatness—specifically, the kind that came with a mansion. “One day,” my father would say, “we’ll need a map just to find the kitchen.” My mother would nod and add, “And you’ll marry someone who’ll help us get there, won’t you, Emma?”
As a kid, I laughed along, but by high school, I realized their ambitions were serious. They cared more about social connections and wealth than my achievements. My mother even questioned my friends about their parents’ incomes, while my father networked during my performances.
In college, I fell for Liam—a gentle soul with plans to teach. He was everything my parents despised, but he had warmth and kindness. When he proposed with his grandmother’s simple ring, I knew I would choose him, no matter what.
My parents disapproved and threatened to disown me, but I stood firm. “I’m marrying him,” I said.
Our wedding day was beautiful, though two seats stayed empty. Grandpa walked me down the aisle, whispering, “You’ve chosen the right kind of wealth—love over money.” His presence filled the church with joy.
Life wasn’t easy at first. Liam’s teaching salary and my freelance work barely made ends meet. Our small apartment was cramped, but it was ours, filled with laughter—especially after Sophie was born.
Grandpa became our rock, surprising us with groceries or telling Sophie stories. He once told her, “You’re wealthy when people love you for who you are.” Sophie smiled, “Like Mommy and Daddy love me?” Grandpa nodded proudly.
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