I gave up everything to raise my granddaughter, Lily. Late nights, sacrificed dreams—her happiness always came first. But once she became an influencer, I became an inconvenience.

After her parents’ death, I devoted my life to her, working tirelessly as a seamstress. I packed her lunches, helped with homework, and comforted her through heartbreaks. When she found social media, I supported her, though I didn’t understand it.

Fame changed her. She stopped inviting me to dinner, rolled her eyes at my questions. Then, one day, I heard her mock me in a livestream: “Ugh, my ancient grandma doesn’t even know what a hashtag is!”

Then came the real betrayal.

“Grandma, I think it’s time you moved out,” she said, scrolling through her phone. Her followers thought I was “depressing.” Worse, I had signed the house over to her years ago, never imagining she’d use it against me.

She even wanted to film my departure for “content.”

But I wasn’t helpless. With help from an old lawyer friend and a journalist, I exposed her. Her sponsors dropped her, followers turned against her, and the house was legally returned to me.

She lost everything. Months later, she begged for another chance. I told her to prove it.

She did. Lily quit social media, got a job, and volunteered at a senior center. When I finally saw her genuinely caring for others, I knew my granddaughter had returned.

“Come home, Lily.”

Fame fades. Family remains. Never trade real love for temporary applause.