After my husband died, my son became the center of my world. I gave him everything I could—my time, my savings, my devotion. He was my purpose, my reason to keep going.
When he married, I welcomed his wife with careful optimism. And when children followed, I felt as though life had handed me a second chance at happiness. Three grandchildren filled my home with noise and warmth. Three voices calling me Grandma. Three little souls who softened the ache of loneliness.
At least, that’s what I thought.
A few weeks ago, the truth surfaced—unexpectedly and painfully. A document I wasn’t meant to see. A timeline that didn’t add up. A conversation that suddenly explained too much. In an instant, the world I thought I understood splintered.
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