For years, I lived under a roof that cried when it rained. Buckets lined my hallway. Mold crept into corners. My arthritis flared in the cold, and the medicine I needed sat behind a pharmacy counter I couldn’t afford to visit.
But every month, without fail, I sent my grandson $200.
He was in college, chasing dreams I never dared to dream. I told myself it was worth it. That skipping my pills and patching leaks with duct tape was a small price to pay for his future.
He rarely called. But I didn’t mind. I imagined him busy—studying, working, building a life.
Then one day, I saw a photo on social media.
A beach house. White shutters. Ocean view. Captioned: “Weekend getaway at my place.”
I stared at the screen, heart pounding. His place?
I called him. “Is that your house?”
He laughed. “Yeah, bought it last year. Airbnb pays the mortgage. Pretty sweet, huh?”
Sweet.
I hung up and sat in silence.
I thought of the nights I’d gone to bed hungry. The mornings I’d skipped my medication. The rain that had soaked my blankets.
And I thought of the money I’d sent him. Month after month.
I didn’t yell. I didn’t cry. I made a plan.
The next month, I mailed him a letter. Inside was a check—for $1.00.
The note read:
“This month, I’m keeping the other $199 to fix my roof. You seem to have yours covered.”
He called, voice shaky. “Grandma, I didn’t mean to hurt you.”
“I know,” I said. “But you did.”
We talked. Really talked. For the first time in years. He apologized. I listened.
He came to visit the next weekend. Helped me patch the roof. Took me to the pharmacy.
And when he left, he handed me an envelope. Inside was a check—for $2,000.
“I want to pay you back,” he said. “For everything.”
I smiled. “You can’t pay me back. But you can do better.”
Sometimes, love means sacrifice. But sometimes, it means drawing a line.
I taught him that. Not with anger. But with truth.
And in doing so, I reminded myself: I deserve comfort, too.
