I saved for years to retire, but my daughter (20) had an unplanned baby and needed help. I love my grandson, but she kept leaning on me for money. When I finally said no, she smirked: “You’ll regret this.” The next day, I got home and froze when I saw my entire living room torn apart.
Couch cushions slashed. The TV, gone. Drawers ripped out and dumped on the floor.
My framed photo of my late husband shattered and face-down. My stomach dropped. I thought I’d been robbed.
I dialed 911 with shaking hands. An officer arrived, looked around, took notes, then said something that made my heart pound. “No forced entry.
Someone had a key.”
I only gave keys to two people—my neighbor Marla, and my daughter. And Marla? She was on vacation in Arizona.
I didn’t want to believe it. My daughter wouldn’t… would she? I called her.
She didn’t pick up. I tried again. Nothing.
I drove to her apartment. Her car wasn’t there, but I knocked anyway. No answer.
I called again. Straight to voicemail. I went back home and sat on the floor, just staring at the mess.
My retirement dreams felt so far away at that moment. I’d planned to downsize, maybe move to a smaller town, do some traveling. But instead, I’d been playing babysitter, ATM, and now… maybe even a victim of my own child.
The police called back the next morning. “We found the TV in a local pawn shop. Do you recognize this?” They sent a photo.
It was mine. And the name used on the pawn slip? My daughter’s.
I didn’t even cry. I just sat there on the edge of my bed, numb. I knew she’d been struggling, but I didn’t expect this level of betrayal.
Not from the girl I’d raised alone after her father died in a car crash when she was 10. I gave her everything. Private school, piano lessons, therapy when she shut down as a teen.
When she got pregnant at 19 and the father vanished, I took her in. I helped with the baby. Paid for diapers, formula, doctor visits.
But it was never enough. If I didn’t help instantly, I was “selfish.” If I questioned how she spent money, I was “controlling.” Still, I never thought she’d rob me. I didn’t press charges.
I couldn’t. That little boy—my grandson—didn’t deserve to grow up with a mom in jail. I figured this would be the wake-up call she needed.
But two days later, I got a text from her:
“You made me do that. You forced my hand.”
I stared at the screen, stunned. That wasn’t regret.
That wasn’t apology. That was blame. I didn’t respond.
Instead, I changed the locks. I called the pawn shop and paid to get my TV back. I cleaned up the house.
I took a deep breath. Then I blocked her number. It hurt.
More than I can describe. The silence in the house grew louder by the day. I missed my grandson terribly.
He had the brightest laugh, chubby cheeks, and called me “Mimi.” He’d run to the door when I came home from work, arms wide, shouting my name. Now? Just silence.
Three weeks passed. No word. One morning, I walked out to check my mail, and there was a little boy on my porch.
Alone. It was him. I gasped.
The story doesn’t end here — it continues on the next page.
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