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.

“Absolutely.”

The walkie-talkie slipped from my fingers and clattered to the floor.

I sat in the dark, staring at the wall I helped build. The wall they now wanted to cross—for their own profit.

My son. The boy I raised alone. Fed, clothed, loved without condition. How could he?

That night—and the nights after—I barely slept. Lila’s laughter echoed in my head, Thomas’s casual betrayal louder than any insult.

How do you give everything and still feel invisible?

I scrubbed dishes until my hands were raw. Skipped meals so they wouldn’t have to. Was I just a bank to them?

It became clear: they wouldn’t stop unless I drew a line.

Saturday was my 60th birthday. I kept the dinner small.

Thomas and Lila arrived with a store-bought cake and sunny smiles.

“Happy birthday, Mom!” Thomas said, kissing my cheek. “You look tired.”

Max handed me a drawing—three stick figures holding hands. “That’s you, me, and Rover!”

“Oh, we don’t have a dog,” Lila corrected gently.

“But Grandma wants one,” Max whispered.

Thomas laughed. “Mom can’t handle a dog. She struggles with herself.”

I set my cup down and stood slowly.

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