I’ve lived long enough to see the world shift in ways I never imagined. I watched the civil rights movement unfold, prayed for the boys sent off to Vietnam, wept through 9/11, and now find myself puzzled by TikTok trends that make no sense to me. Back when milk was delivered in glass bottles and Elvis still drove a truck, life seemed slower—or maybe we simply knew how to slow down and appreciate it.
Through all those years, I raised three children in a home held together by thin walls but bound by strong love. I worked long diner shifts, mourned the loss of a husband I cherished, and built a life that wasn’t glamorous but was full of pride and purpose. Every wrinkle and scar I carry is a testament to sacrifice and love. That’s why what happened with my granddaughter Miranda hurt so deeply.
Miranda came into my care when I was already 61. Her father—my middle son—was lost to addiction, and her mother left when Miranda was only six. Suddenly, I was raising a child again, older and slower but fiercely determined. I packed her lunches with little notes tucked inside. I read bedtime stories until my voice gave out. I whispered prayers each night, hoping her life would be brighter than mine ever was. From the moment she came to live with me, I saved for her future. Every clipped coupon, every dollar set aside, every pie baked for the church fundraiser added up. Over the years, I managed to stash just over $42,000 in a lockbox hidden at the back of my closet. It wasn’t a fortune, but it was enough to give her a chance—college, training, something to open doors she couldn’t open on her own.
