At eighty, I was far from slowing down. I still roller-skated, did puppy yoga, and spent every free moment with my grandson, Jason. His mother, Kelly, leaned on me constantly—dropping him off daily, expecting meals, bedtime stories, everything. I never complained because Jason lit up my world. But Kelly? She couldn’t stand that my son, Jack, appreciated my help. When I announced a big picnic for my birthday, she mocked the idea. I smiled anyway, unaware she had a plan to humiliate me.

At the picnic, Jason disappeared while I was buying him ice cream. Panic surged as I raced on my new birthday scooter through the park, yelling his name. When I returned breathless, Kelly was quick to blame my age. But then Jason popped out from under a blanket, giggling—he’d been told by his mom to play hide-and-seek without telling me. It was all staged to prove I wasn’t fit to babysit.

When I found out Kelly had hired a nanny for the summer behind my back, I met the young woman privately and paid her a month’s salary to decline the job. Jason spent the summer with me instead.

By the time Jack returned from vacation, he finally saw the truth: I’d always been the one keeping everything together.