I’m 72, a retired librarian who scrimped and saved my whole life, vowing to be there for my only granddaughter. When she cried about her dream wedding’s cost—venue, dress, band—I sold my beloved bungalow, filled with 40 years of memories, to fund it. She called me “the best grandma” with tears in her eyes.
Months later, no invitation arrived. At her apartment, I asked if it was lost. She casually admitted I wasn’t invited, citing a “strict age policy” to keep the wedding “fun,” not “boring.” Stunned, I realized I was good enough to pay but not to attend. Her words cut deep, and I left in tears.
On her wedding day, I didn’t send a gift—I sent a lawyer. The “gift” was a loan, per papers she’d signed. A courier delivered the demand for repayment as she donned her gown. Whispers spread among guests, and by the cake-cutting, her joy was gone, her husband betrayed.
I lost my house but gained self-respect. Now in a cozy senior apartment, I’m surrounded by kind neighbors and coffee mornings. My granddaughter hasn’t called, but the silence feels like peace.
