My grandson secretly gave me a walkie-talkie for our bedtime chats — one night, it ended up revealing a conversation I wasn’t meant to hear.

“Grandma Annie, this is for you!” he said.

“What’s it for, honey?” I asked.

“So we can talk even when I’m in my room! Just push the button and say my name!”

I tied it to my apron. “I love it, darling,” I said.

He squeezed my legs tight, and through the thin wall between our apartments, I heard Lila calling him inside. We live next door in Skyridge Apartments. I helped them buy that place five years ago, back when Lila was pregnant with Max.

“That way, our little one can grow up close to his grandma,” Thomas had promised, eyes full of hope.

I gave them $40,000 from my retirement fund. It was a lot, but I didn’t hesitate. Family closeness was priceless.

Most nights, you’d find me at Murphy’s Diner, scrubbing dishes until my hands bled. When Thomas asked me to help with Max’s daycare, I said yes without a second thought.

“Mom, it’s $800 a month,” he said last winter. “We’re struggling.”

I sent the money, month after month. No exceptions. Because Max deserved the best, even if it meant skipping meals or working extra shifts.

Then last Wednesday happened.

After a ten-hour shift, I collapsed into my recliner, exhausted and aching. I closed my eyes.

Static crackled from the walkie-talkie.

“Hey Daddy, are you there?” Max’s sleepy voice floated through.

I smiled.

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