I raised my grandson from the day he was born, gave him everything I had, and loved him like my own son. So when he invited me on a weekend trip, I thought it was his way of showing gratitude. I never imagined I’d end up sleeping on the floor while karma prepared the lesson of his lifetime.

I’m 87 years old, and I thought I had seen everything life could throw at me. Wars, losses, heartbreak, even two strokes that left half my face numb for weeks. But nothing prepared me for being betrayed by the boy I’d raised as my own son.

You see, I’ve raised my grandson, Tyler, from the moment he entered this world. His mother, my sweet Marianne, died giving birth to him. His father, my son-in-law, Daniel, couldn’t handle the grief and disappeared from our lives.

Last I heard, he was somewhere in Nevada, living in a trailer park. So, it was I who fed Tyler his bottles at two in the morning, rocked him to sleep when he had colic, and walked him to his first day of kindergarten with his little backpack that was almost bigger than he was. I gave him everything I could scrape together on my baker’s salary and later on my pension.