Just before Easter, our twin grandsons, Kyle and Dylan, surprised my wife Laura with what they called the “trip of a lifetime”—a visit to Washington, D.C. to see the cherry blossoms. It was something Laura had dreamed about for years, and the boys insisted on covering everything: the hotel, meals, gas. All she had to do was lend them her car.
Laura was overjoyed. She packed her bag with excitement and even cried a little, touched by what she believed was a generous gift.
Two days later, I got a call well past midnight. Laura was stranded at a gas station, alone. The car was gone. She had no money. No way home.
As it turned out, the boys had asked her to pay for everything during the trip, saying their credit cards weren’t working and promising to pay her back later. But the worst part came on the way home: during a gas stop, Laura went inside to pay, and the boys drove off in her car to go out with friends—leaving her behind.
She ended up spending the night outside beside a vending machine.
I picked her up. The ride home was quiet. Laura didn’t cry, but her silence said more than words ever could. I could tell she felt heartbroken—not just by what happened, but because it came from people she loved and trusted.
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