For years, my travel fund represented more than just money – it was the promise that after raising children and burying a husband, I might finally have an adventure. At 73, that dream collided with a nightmare: my precious granddaughter needed expensive treatment.
“Please, Mom,” my daughter begged. “We can’t afford this alone.” But all I could see were my carefully saved dollars disappearing into hospital bills. “I deserve this trip,” I insisted.
I learned the price of that decision when I came home to find my daughter emptying my dresser drawers. “The house is mine,” she reminded me, her voice trembling with anger. “Just like you reminded me that your money is yours.”
Now I understand too late that some choices can’t be undone. My savings are buying me a cramped apartment instead of gondola rides in Venice. My daughter’s phone calls go unanswered. And the worst pain? Knowing my granddaughter might suffer because I wanted to see the Eiffel Tower.
