I’ve always believed love is more than words—it’s shown in the choices we make and the sacrifices we’re willing to carry. I learned that truth through years of hardship, but nothing tested it more than what happened with my granddaughter, Riley. I gave up the house I had lived in for four decades so she could have the wedding of her dreams—only to be told I wasn’t welcome at it. In the end, she learned an important lesson about respect, gratitude, and what family truly means.
My name is Martha, and I’m 72. Most of my life has been spent giving to the people I love. When I was young, my husband, Bill, died in a factory accident, leaving me to raise our daughter, Angela, alone. I worked at a small-town library, clipped coupons, cooked thrifty meals, and stretched every dollar. Angela never went without.
Years later, when Angela had Riley, I poured myself into helping raise her too. I sewed costumes, baked birthday cakes, and carried Band-Aids for every scraped knee. I wasn’t just a grandmother—I was her safe place.
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