He came to me with that boyish grin—said he needed help with tuition. Just one semester. I dipped into my emergency fund. Wrote a note: Proud of you. Keep going.
A week later, his mom called me sobbing. “He proposed,” she said. “With a ring. At a vineyard. There were drones, Grandma. Drones.”
I didn’t believe her—until I saw it myself. A full engagement video, edited like a movie trailer. The ring? My “tuition” money.
Worse? I haven’t even met her. Not once.
So I confronted him. At the diner we used to go to. He looked annoyed, not ashamed. Said she was “private.” Said we wouldn’t understand.
“She’s ashamed of us,” I said.
He didn’t answer.
Weeks passed. Then—she called me. Jada.
Said she didn’t know the money came from me. Said he was lost in the pressure of being someone he’s not. Said she broke off the engagement—for both their sakes.
Later, my grandson came back. No half-smile. Just tears. A hug. A check. He sold the ring.
Now? No big plans. Just slow healing. Real love. Honesty.
And me?
I got my grandson back.
Because love that demands lies isn’t love.
But truth? That’s where the real story begins.
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