I always believed that love and sacrifice would be enough to earn loyalty in return. I thought that if I gave everything to my family, they would at least give me honesty. What I learned, far too late, is that sometimes sacrifice just makes you an easy mark.
My name is Annie. I’m 60 years old, a widow, and for most of my life, I’ve put family above all else. That devotion nearly broke me—until a toy walkie-talkie revealed the truth I had been blind to.
When my husband passed away, our son Thomas was just seven years old. From that day on, it was only him and me. I worked any job I could find—scrubbing floors, washing dishes, pulling endless double shifts. My hands stayed raw, my back ached, but I kept going because Thomas deserved a childhood that didn’t feel like struggle.
Years later, when he married Lila, I thought my sacrifices had paid off. They seemed happy, and when my grandson Max was born, my heart felt whole again. Max, with his curls and infectious laugh, became my sunshine. I even helped Thomas and Lila buy their apartment in our building, giving them $40,000 from my retirement savings. They told me it was so Max could grow up close to his grandma. Back then, it felt worth every penny.
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