I’m 72 years old. I spent my whole life working as a librarian, clipping coupons, and saving every penny I could. I never had much, but I always promised myself one thing: if my only granddaughter ever needed me, I’d be there.
So when she came to me crying about how expensive her dream wedding would be—the dress, the venue, the catering—my heart broke. She’s my only grandchild, the light of my life. I wanted her to have it all, even if I never had it myself.
That week, I sold my house. The little bungalow I’d lived in for 40 years, the one filled with memories of my late husband, family holidays, and birthdays. I told myself: It’s just a house. She’s family. She’s worth it.
The money I gave her covered the venue, the designer dress she’d been eyeing, and even the live band. She hugged me with tears in her eyes and called me “the best grandma in the world.”
Months passed. The wedding date crept closer. I waited every day for the mail—for that shiny envelope with my name on it. But it never came.
Finally, my heart too heavy to ignore it, I drove to her apartment. When she opened the door, I asked, straight out:
“Sweetheart, did my invitation get lost in the mail?”
She looked at me like I was asking something silly. Then she sighed, almost annoyed.
“Oh, Grandma. I didn’t want to hurt your feelings, but… no, YOU’RE NOT INVITED.”
The words didn’t make sense. I blinked, stunned. “Not invited? But… I sold my home. I gave you everything I had so you could have this day.”
She shrugged. “I know, and I’m grateful. But we decided on a strict age policy. No kids under 16, no adults over 65. We want the wedding to feel… fun. You know? Not boring.”
Her words sliced through me. I felt the floor tilt beneath my feet.
I whispered, “So I was good enough to pay for it… but not good enough to be there?”
She smiled awkwardly and said, “IT’S NOTHING PERSONAL, GRANDMA. WE JUST WANT EVERYONE TO HAVE A GOOD TIME.”
And that was the moment my tears burned hot on my cheeks. I knew what I had to do. So, I rushed out to my car.
