I have always thought that love is more than merely saying it. That concept guided my existence throughout my roles as a wife, a mother, and subsequently, a grandmother. But love can make you blind at times. It can make you too giving and too willing to give up everything until someone you raised and would die for hurts you in a way you never thought imaginable.
I’m Martha. I am 72 years old. Family, books, and staying alive have all been important parts of my existence.
I married Bill, my husband, when I was 19. He worked at a factory and was polite and had broad shoulders. We acquired a modest house with creaky flooring and awful wallpaper. It was ours. We wanted it to be full of kids and joy. Bill left for work one cold morning and never came back, cutting those dreams short. An industrial accident snatched him away from me, leaving me with a four-year-old kid and a lot of expenses.
For forty years, I was a librarian. It wasn’t spectacular, and I didn’t make much money, but I learned how to make pennies last until they screamed. I made broth from chicken bones that lasted three days, clipped coupons, and stitched outfits from cheap fabric. Angela, my daughter, never went hungry. She always had affection.
Angela
Angela worked two jobs, so I helped take care of Riley. I took her to preschool, bandaged her scratched knees, and stayed up all night with her when she had fevers. I was the grandmother who consistently remembered her favorite color, diligently saved quarters for the gumball machine, and crafted Halloween costumes from old curtains, as store-bought ones were prohibitively costly.
When
The pain was too much to handle. But when I saw Riley, my wonderful, strong-willed granddaughter, I realized I couldn’t give up. She needed me. So I became her protector, her rock, and her safe spot.
We were everything to each other for years.
Riley became a lively young woman. She had big dreams, dreams that Angela never had a chance to have. She learned how to plan events, produced vision boards of the weddings she wanted to plan, and kept telling me, “Someday, Grandma, my wedding will be perfect.”
I was thrilled for her when she met Daniel and got engaged. Really. He seemed calm, polite, and a touch boring, but if he made her smile, that was all I needed.
Riley came to my tiny cottage one afternoon with black bags under her eyes. She put her purse down on the table and started to cry.
She cried, “Grandma, I can’t do it.” “The budget, the place, the dress… it’s all too much.” I can’t have the wedding I desire.
She broke down when she said those words. She looked like a kid again, like the girl who cried on her bed when her boyfriend broke up with her before prom.
I took her hand. “What do you want, dear?”
She sniffed. “Just one day that is perfect.” That’s all I’ve ever wanted.
I wandered through my house that night, touching the old wallpaper, the pictures, and the dent in the hallway where Bill dumped a box of tools. I remembered all the things that had happened in those walls. And then I remembered Riley crying at my kitchen table.
And I chose.
I sold my house in just a few weeks. The house I had lived in for nearly forty years, where I had reared my daughter, buried my pain, and made a life, was gone. I moved into a one-bedroom apartment in a senior living complex where the lights flickered and the elevator didn’t work. I persuaded myself it was only for a little while.
I sent Riley the money she needed for the vineyard, the designer dress, the string quartet, and the chocolate fountain she had talked about once with lights in her eyes. She cried and held me.
She said, “You’re the best grandma in the world.”
I believed that giving up was a sign of love.
But then the invites were sent out.
And mine never got here.
Weeks went by. I checked the mail every morning, telling myself it must have been late. I finally couldn’t handle it anymore. I drove to her house and asked her directly.
“Did my invitation get lost in the mail, sweetheart?”
She moved, looked away from me, and then said the words that broke my heart.
“Oh, Grandma. No, you aren’t invited.
The world changed. “Not… invited?”
She shrugged her shoulders in defeat. “Daniel and I made a choice. No kids younger than 16. And no adults who are older than sixty-five. We just want a specific feeling. “Fun, lively, not boring.”
She spoke in a softer voice, as if that would help. “It’s not personal.” We just want the appropriate vibe.
The energy.
So I could pay, but I couldn’t go.
I left without saying anything else. The whole way home, my hands shook. But there was a spark of steel behind the pain.
I hadn’t merely given her money. I was smart.
I had paid the suppliers directly, “just in case,” I remarked at the time. It’s important to keep track of things on paper. I called the bank, and the money went back into my account.
The frantic phone calls started two weeks later.
“Grandma, the place says the payment didn’t go through. The dress is no longer available. The four people left. “Everything is falling apart!”
She was so scared that her voice broke.
I saw Angela’s picture on my windowsill. “Maybe,” I added quietly, “you should hire someone younger than sixty-five to do that for you.”
And I hung up.
I made blueberry muffins for the first time in years and ate them without any problems. I wasn’t mad. Just… over.
But then, only a few days before the wedding that didn’t happen, someone knocked on my door.
Riley stood there with mascara running down her face. She fell into my arms.
She cried, “Grandma, I messed up.” “I was so caught up in the picture, the influences, and the beautiful wedding. I don’t remember who I am. “I forgot who raised me.”
Her words broke me again. I saw my granddaughter’s hurt and pride underneath. The little girl who used to say, “You’re the only one who really understands me.”
“Will you still come?” She implored. “Will you walk me down the aisle?”
I embraced her, and after a long pause, I whispered, “Yes.” But this time, we do it as a group.
There was no vineyard at the wedding. I had worked my whole life in a communal garden behind the library. Riley had on a basic dress. Under string lights, a jazz trio from the area played. There was no chocolate fountain, but there was actual delight.
And when I took her down the aisle, she glanced at me and exclaimed, loud enough for everyone to hear:
“This is the woman who saved me.” More than once.”
Love can be a modest sacrifice. Occasionally it’s about making rules. And sometimes it’s giving someone a second chance when they finally discover what family really means.
