Quando a filha de Sandra, Abigail, liga para ela, ela ouve tudo sobre como a situação de vida de Abby está deixando-a tudo, menos feliz. Então, ela decide entrar no modo mãe e salvar o dia para sua filha e suas amigas.
Nunca vou esquecer o dia em que minha filha, Abigail, me ligou. A voz da pobre garota tremia de frustração.
Uma mulher segurando seu telefone | Fonte: Midjourney
“Mãe, é um pesadelo. Tudo isso é só um pesadelo!” ela exclamou.
“O que está acontecendo?”, perguntei, de repente cedendo ao instinto materno. “Conte-me tudo e fale devagar, querida.”
Uma jovem mulher ao telefone | Fonte: Midjourney
“Minhas colegas de quarto!” ela gritou. “Os namorados delas são mais do que ridículos. Você quer saber o que elas fizeram ontem? Os namorados delas pararam minha carga de roupa para lavar, tiraram todas as minhas roupas, jogaram a bagunça molhada no chão e começaram a lavar a própria carga delas!”
“O quê?” exclamei, minha raiva aumentando.
Uma cesta com roupa para lavar | Fonte: Midjourney
“E tem mais, é claro”, ela disse. “Eles comem nossa comida e deixam pratos sujos em todo lugar. E você sabe o quão frio tem estado ultimamente? Bem, adivinha quem tem tomado banho frio! Eles sempre usam toda a água quente. E para piorar, eles pararam de contribuir para o fundo de lanches compartilhados.”
“Oh, querida,” eu disse, tentando acalmá-la. “Sinto muito, mas nós vamos resolver isso.”
Louça suja | Fonte: Midjourney
Minha filha suspirou profundamente antes de murmurar seu adeus.
Eu sabia que tínhamos que ser inteligentes nessa situação. Havia muitas maneiras pelas quais as colegas de quarto de Abby, Ella e Danielle, poderiam tornar a vida dela ainda pior.
Um grupo de meninas | Fonte: Midjourney
Mas quando descobri que duas das meninas sentiam o mesmo em relação aos namorados, ficou mais fácil lidar com a situação horrível.
“Por favor, Sra. Landon,” Ella disse. “Apenas nos ajude a lidar com isso porque não podemos mais viver.”
Uma jovem chateada | Fonte: Midjourney
Sabendo que três das cinco colegas de quarto estavam na mesma página, eu sabia que só precisávamos lidar com Tess e Rachel, as duas meninas que trouxeram esses meninos para a vida da minha filha.
Confrontar essas meninas provavelmente levaria a mais drama e a um ambiente tóxico para Abby e suas amigas lidarem. Mas tínhamos que tentar. Eu sabia que não havia outra opção.
Uma mulher preocupada | Fonte: Midjourney
Felizmente, o contrato de locação da casa compartilhada de Abby estava chegando ao fim, pois o ano universitário também estava chegando ao fim. Rachel e Tess decidiram que celebrariam o fim indo acampar com seus namorados.
“É isso, mãe”, disse Abby. “Este é o momento em que podemos fazer o que for preciso. Eles vão embora na sexta-feira e só devem voltar no domingo à noite.”
Pessoas em um acampamento | Fonte: Midjourney
Enquanto eles estavam fora, Abby, Danielle, Ella e eu começamos a trabalhar.
“Certo, meninas”, eu disse, quando as conheci em um restaurante no começo da semana. “Vamos dar uma lição em suas colegas de quarto e seus namorados. Vocês não podem esperar viver nessas condições, e eu vou dar um fim nisso.”
O interior de um restaurante | Fonte: Midjourney
“Obrigada, Sra. Landon”, disse Ella. “Quando falei com meus pais sobre a situação, eles apenas me disseram para lidar com isso da melhor maneira que eu pudesse. Isso não ajudou em nada.”
“E meus pais me disseram para não dizer absolutamente nada!” Danielle entrou na conversa. “Eles disseram que melhoraria com o tempo.”
Uma pessoa sentada à mesa | Fonte: Midjourney
“Não, estou aqui agora e estou ouvindo vocês três”, eu disse enquanto nossos milkshakes chegavam. “Nós vamos consertar isso. Eu prometo a vocês.”
Quando os casais estavam fora, nós mudávamos todas as coisas deles para fora. Tudo, desde os móveis da sala de estar, pratos, talheres, utensílios de cozinha, recipientes de plástico, suprimentos de panificação e muito mais.
Caixas de papelão empilhadas | Fonte: Midjourney
“Infelizmente, a cortina do chuveiro pertence a Tess”, disse Abby, enquanto a removia. “Então ela também tem que ir embora.”
“E a vassoura e a pá de lixo mais novas”, Danielle entrou na conversa. “Elas ainda são novas porque Tess mal as usou.”
Uma pessoa usando uma vassoura e uma pá de lixo | Fonte: Pexels
“Bom,” eu disse, encorajando o comportamento deles. “O que for preciso ir, jogue em caixas.”
“Mãe, os dois não contribuem para nenhum suprimento doméstico compartilhado há meses”, disse Abby. “Você sabe, todos os detergentes e papel higiênico e tudo mais.”
Então, decidimos que, como Rachel e Tess não tinham contribuído, elas não tinham absolutamente nenhum direito aos suprimentos.
Detergentes em uma mesa | Fonte: Pexels
“Eu tenho um armário na garagem que tranca”, eu disse. “Ele pode funcionar bem em um banheiro ou até mesmo em uma copa. Vou trazê-lo e vamos usá-lo, ok?”
Voltei para casa e troquei de carro com meu marido, pegando a van para poder levar o armário de volta para as meninas.
Um close-up de um caminhão | Midjourney
Também embalamos todo o papel higiênico, toalhas de papel, detergentes para louça e sabão em pó.
“Quando você precisar dessas coisas,” eu disse, guardando o sabão em pó. “Você pode destrancá-lo e usá-lo no seu tempo.”
Um armário com detergentes e produtos de higiene pessoal | Fonte: Midjourney
Abby me disse que quando os casais retornaram, eles ficaram extremamente chocados.
“Você deveria ter visto a cara deles”, ela exclamou alegremente.
Acontece que quando eles viram tudo acabado, eles estavam perdendo a cabeça. E para piorar ainda mais as coisas (ou melhorar para nós), Rachel, Tess e seus namorados tiveram intoxicação alimentar na viagem e estavam se sentindo particularmente miseráveis.
Uma jovem mulher nada impressionada | Fonte: Midjourney
“Vou encaminhar todas as mensagens de texto deles para você, mãe”, disse Abby, rindo do outro lado da linha.
Momentos depois, meu telefone vibrou com mensagens mordazes.
Um close-up de um telefone | Fonte: Midjourney
Como você pôde fazer isso conosco? Nós voltamos de uma viagem, doentes e exaustos, apenas para descobrir que tudo se foi?
Onde estão nossos pertences?
Você colocou seus pertences no quintal?! Como pôde?
Uma caixa do lado de fora | Fonte: Midjourney
E vocês também levaram todos os itens domésticos compartilhados! O papel higiênico?! Estamos com intoxicação alimentar!
Eu ri sozinho enquanto minha filha me encaminhava essas mensagens.
A raiva e a confusão deles eram palpáveis por meio de suas mensagens. E eles exigiam saber por que não tinham sido avisados.
Uma mulher mais velha rindo | Fonte: Midjourney
Minha filha, agora calma e serena porque estava no controle da situação, respondeu calmamente:
Você estava acampando. Provavelmente você só não tinha sinal para receber nossas mensagens. Desculpe, não desculpe.
Nos dias que se seguiram, Tess e Rachel pareceram perceber a gravidade da situação. Sem Abigail, Ella e Danielle, elas realmente não tinham nada em casa.
Uma garota mandando mensagem | Fonte: Midjourney
Cada item que eles pegaram era essencial para seu estilo de vida diário.
Por fim, os aproveitadores não tiveram outra escolha a não ser fazer as malas com seus pertences mínimos e ir embora ainda mais cedo do que o planejado.
“Mãe, você nunca acreditaria”, Abby me disse quando nos encontramos para tomar café.
Um interior de uma cafeteria | Fonte: Midjourney
“O quê, querida?”, perguntei.
“As meninas foram morar com os namorados!”, ela disse, olhando o menu.
“De jeito nenhum!”, exclamei, imaginando como aqueles quatro iriam sobreviver sozinhos.
Uma garota sentada em uma cafeteria | Fonte: Midjourney
“Sim! Dani esbarrou com Tess no mercado outro dia e viu as quatro tentando fazer compras. Ela disse que Rachel e Tess pareciam exaustas e além de irritadas.”
“Bem feito para eles”, eu disse, adicionando uma colher de açúcar no meu café. “Eles precisavam provar o próprio remédio. Aqueles garotos provavelmente estão fazendo uma confusão em casa. E aquelas garotas estão finalmente abrindo os olhos para a realidade da situação.”
Um close-up de uma xícara de café | Fonte: Midjourney
“Eu só queria que eles saíssem das nossas vidas, mãe”, disse Abby. “Já era hora.”
“E quanto à renovação do contrato de locação?”, perguntei. Abby ainda tinha dois semestres antes da formatura.
“Nós vamos fazer isso”, ela disse, comendo sua fatia de bolo. “Os primos gêmeos da Dani estão ficando com os outros dois quartos, e eu os conheci, então sei que todos nós seremos uma boa combinação!”
Duas mulheres sorridentes | Fonte: Midjourney
Nosso plano funcionou perfeitamente, ensinando a Rachel e Tess uma dura lição sobre respeito e contribuição. Foi um delicioso momento de vingança, colocando-as de volta em seu lugar.
Mas o mais importante é que as meninas finalmente puderam ter sua casa de volta e aproveitar em paz, livres das colegas de quarto arrogantes e desrespeitosas que tornaram suas vidas miseráveis.
Uma mulher mais velha sorridente | Fonte: Midjourney
O que você teria feito?
Se você gostou desta história, aqui vai outra para você |
Padrasto me entregou um recém-nascido para cuidar dele – Levei o maior susto da minha vida quando troquei a fralda do bebê
Quando o padrasto de Ellie aleatoriamente lhe dá um bebê recém-nascido para cuidar, ela não tem ideia de quem é o bebê ou de onde veio. Mas quando ela tem que trocar a fralda do bebê, Ellie encontra um nome e um endereço. Com o bebê a tiracolo, ela vai até o endereço para descobrir a verdade sobre a criança e seu padrasto.
Nunca imaginei que um cobertor pudesse revelar tanto, mas quando agarrei o tecido macio com um nome e endereço rabiscados na borda, meu mundo mergulhou em mais incerteza do que eu já havia experimentado antes.
Um pequeno pé sob um cobertor rosa | Fonte: Pexels
Até agora, minha vida tem sido uma série de surpresas — desde meu pai nos deixando quando eu tinha cerca de três anos até minha mãe se casar novamente com William, um homem de poucas palavras, mas de profunda gentileza que mudou minha vida.
Quando minha mãe morreu, o vazio deixado para trás foi outra coisa. Eu estava no meio do ensino médio e ainda navegando pela minha dor.
Flores em um caixão | Fonte: Unsplash
Mas meu padrasto me comprou cadernos para anotar meus sentimentos e sentou-se comigo em silêncio enquanto ouvíamos músicas que ambos amávamos.
Com isso, nós dois nos curamos.
Cadernos e canetas | Fonte: Pexels
“Iremos ao túmulo da mamãe toda semana, Ellie”, ele me prometeu um dia, enquanto comíamos macarrão na sala de estar enquanto assistíamos TV.
“Eu não tinha muito antes de conhecer sua mãe, mas então eu ganhei você, e tudo mudou. Eu me tornei pai.”
Flores em um túmulo | Fonte: Pexels
Eu sorri para ele. Lembrei-me dos primeiros dias quando William se mudou, suas caixas enfileiradas pela casa enquanto minha mãe tentava abrir espaço para ele — misturando todas as nossas coisas em uma grande família.
Mas era feriado antes de eu me preparar para ir para a faculdade, e meu padrasto entrou em casa, me entregando um recém-nascido sem nenhuma explicação. Ele colocou o bebê em meus braços.
Um homem carregando uma caixa | Fonte: Pexels
“Ellie”, ele disse, franzindo profundamente as sobrancelhas enquanto se sentava no sofá, com a cabeça entre as mãos.
“Você pode cuidar dela por apenas alguns dias?”, ele perguntou em seu tom reservado de sempre, evitando meu olhar enquanto se preparava para sair para o trabalho novamente.
“Espere!”, gritei, completamente confuso sobre o que estava acontecendo.
Este trabalho é inspirado em eventos e pessoas reais, mas foi ficcionalizado para fins criativos. Nomes, personagens e detalhes foram alterados para proteger a privacidade e melhorar a narrativa. Qualquer semelhança com pessoas reais, vivas ou mortas, ou eventos reais é mera coincidência e não intencional do autor.
O autor e a editora não fazem nenhuma reivindicação quanto à precisão dos eventos ou à representação dos personagens e não são responsáveis por nenhuma interpretação errônea. Esta história é fornecida “como está”, e quaisquer opiniões expressas são as dos personagens e não refletem as opiniões do autor ou da editora.
My Grandma Served Her Church for 50 Years Until They Gave Her Nothing When She Needed Them—Her Will Contained the Perfect Payback
When Eleanor is abandoned by the church she served for nearly 50 years, her silence speaks louder than any sermon. As her granddaughter watches heartbreak turn into clarity, one final act of truth is set in motion. This is an unforgettable story of legacy, faith, and the quiet power of not being forgotten.
The day of my grandmother’s funeral was sunny. No thunderclaps, no storm clouds. Just warmth. The kind she always carried with her.
Her name was Eleanor and she served her church for nearly five decades without ever asking for anything. Until she needed them. And they gave her nothing.
A funeral altar | Source: Midjourney
Not one church leader came. Not by mistake but by design. They were not invited.
It wasn’t always like this, though. My grandmother was a pillar in that church. A Southern Baptist congregation that prided itself on “family values,” tradition, and photo ops of the pastors shaking hands with senators.
She was the kind of woman who showed up without being asked, who filled in for the sick nursery worker, cooked extra casseroles, and stayed late to wipe down folding tables.
Casseroles of food on a table | Source: Midjourney
She taught Youth Bible Study every Sunday night, helped plan fellowship dinners, drove the church van to retreats and choir tours. She tithed faithfully and gave extra Home Missions. She even funded scholarships for church kids who couldn’t afford to go on mission trips.
Nobody asked her to, she just did it.
She was faithful. She was humble. She was invisible, in the way that older women who do all the work and none of the talking often are.
A smiling older woman | Source: Midjourney
Her greatest gift wasn’t her service, it was how she made people feel. You never left Eleanor’s kitchen or classroom without feeling taller. She saw you. That was her superpower.
I was seven the first time I stayed at Grandma Eleanor’s house by myself. Grandpa Walter was away on a fishing trip. So, it was just me and her. I remember waking up in the middle of the night, scared by a dream I couldn’t remember, and padding down the hallway in my socks.
I didn’t even have to knock, she was already opening the door.
A little girl standing in a hallway | Source: Midjourney
She let me crawl into her bed without a word. Her sheets smelled like lavender and old books. She hummed a hymn I didn’t know the words to, but the melody stuck with me for years. Her hand rubbed soft circles on my back until my breath slowed.
That was her magic. She didn’t always know what to say. But she knew what you needed.
When I had my first heartbreak at 16, she was the only one I wanted to talk to. She didn’t give advice. She didn’t offer clichés. She just poured sweet tea into glass jars and sat with me on the porch.
Two glass jars of sweet tea | Source: Midjourney
At one point, she reached over, tapped my knee, and said, “If someone makes you feel small, they don’t belong near the big, beautiful things inside you.”
I cried harder after that, not because I was sad but because she saw me. She always had.
She taught me how to pray, how to iron a blouse properly, and how to take the high road without letting people walk all over me. She had this quiet strength that felt like standing next to a mountain.
An upset teenage girl sitting on a couch | Source: Midjourney
No flash. No noise. Just steady, solid presence.
She was more than my grandmother. She was the compass I measured the world against.
And when she was abandoned, when they made her feel small, I promised myself I wouldn’t let that be the last chapter in her story.
An upset older woman | Source: Midjourney
My grandmother was 73 when everything changed. She was in a car accident that left her disabled. Her legs never fully recovered. Her bones ached constantly. The woman who used to garden before sunrise now struggled to climb the porch steps without her cane.
So, she wrote letters. She called. She asked the congregation for rides, prayer, and even visits.
They didn’t come. Not even one of them.
A car accident scene | Source: Midjourney
Not Pastor J., the man who baptized her grandkids and gave her the plaque for “Most Years of Service.”
Not Pastor M., the younger one who took over youth ministry and once proudly announced to the congregation that “Miss Eleanor’s potato salad could save souls.”
For ten years, she stayed home. She listened to sermons online.
A bowl of potato salad | Source: Midjourney
“Come home, Callie,” she told me one day on the phone. “Let’s listen to sermons together, baby. Let’s pray together. And when we’re done, we can have some fresh scones and jam. I’ve been teaching Grandpa how to bake.”
I used to do exactly what she wanted. She was my favorite person in the entire world, I would have done anything she asked.
Gran mailed in her tithe. She still sent cute birthday cards and batches of cupcakes to the church kids she used to teach.
A plate of scones and jam on a kitchen table | Source: Midjourney
And still, they never came.
I was 16 when I first realized what was happening. I visited Grandma every Sunday after church, still wearing my dress and heels, sometimes bringing her slices of lemon cake from the bakery she liked.
Every time, without fail, she’d ask the same thing.
“Did you see Pastor J., my Callie? Did he say anything about me?”
At first, I lied. Not big lies, just small, soft ones that would land easy on her heart.
Slices of lemon cake in a bakery | Source: Midjourney
“He says he’s praying for you,” I’d nod. “He asked how you were doing. He said he misses your cornbread, Gran.”
It made her smile. That kind of hopeful, aching smile people wear when they know something isn’t true but need to believe it anyway. I hated how easily she accepted the scraps of comfort I gave her.
But one day, I couldn’t do it anymore.
She asked me the question again as she added a spoon of sugar to her tea. She was all hopeful eyes and soft cardigan sleeves.
Pieces of cornbread on a wooden board | Source: Midjourney
This time I wasn’t going to lie.
“Gran… they don’t talk about you anymore. I’m sorry.”
“What do you mean, Callie?” she asked.
“I mean… they don’t ask about you.”
She didn’t flinch. She just nodded once. Like she already knew. Like her heart had already made peace with being forgotten. But I could see it in the way her hand stopped mid-stir in her tea.
A cup of milky tea on a side table | Source: Midjourney
She didn’t drink it that day.
And she never brought them up again.
The final blow came when she was dying.
She was in hospice, frail and shrinking into herself. Her skin was papery against the white sheets. Machines beeped softly in the background like a countdown. Her breath rattled in her chest. Still, she asked for Pastor J.
An older woman laying in a bed | Source: Midjourney
“Just to talk, Callie,” she said, sighing. “Just once more. I want to go over the services. The hymn that will be sung. That verse in Isaiah, the one about wings like eagles.”
I nodded and told her that I’d pass the message along. But he never came.
Instead, Pastor M. showed up. With his too-white teeth and shiny shoes. He smiled too much. He walked fast and talked even faster, like he was on a timer.
A pensive young woman | Source: Midjourney
He stayed exactly 15 minutes and spent 12 of them circling the same question.
“Have you remembered the church in your will, Eleanor?”
My jaw almost touched the ground.
“I know you’ve always had a generous heart, Eleanor,” he said, placing a hand on hers like he owned it. “And the Lord sees your faithfulness. A bequest could mean a new roof. A scholarship. A real legacy.”
A close up of a man wearing glasses | Source: Midjourney
He didn’t ask if she was afraid. He didn’t ask what she needed. He didn’t ask which hymns spoke to her soul. Instead, cold and calculated, he asked about money.
My grandfather stood in the corner of the hospice room, fists clenched so tight, his knuckles turned white. His jaw moved, like he was chewing the words back down.
“She’s not gone yet,” he said. “And this isn’t the time.”
A close up of an older man | Source: Midjourney
Pastor M. smiled wider, like he was used to swallowing shame and calling it grace.
“Just planting seeds, Brother Walter. Planting seeds for something beautiful to grow…” he said, patting the air like he was blessing us.
He left with the same smug calm he walked in with. Clipboard tucked under his arm. Collared shirt crisp. Not one word about heaven. Not one word about Gran’s life.
A clipboard on a side table | Source: Midjourney
After the door clicked shut, silence filled the room like smoke. Then Gran cried.
I hadn’t seen her cry in years. Not after the accident. Not when she lost friends or strength or dignity. But this? This cut something deeper.
“He didn’t ask me about my soul,” she whispered. “He just asked me about my money.”
My grandfather sat beside her then. He didn’t say much. He just held her hand, the way he always did when words weren’t enough.
A crying old woman | Source: Midjourney
I remember sitting there, watching the two of them, feeling the grief shift inside me. Not just for what we were losing but for how little she got back after giving so much.
That day, something broke. But not in a bitter way. It was clarity.
In the six months that followed, Gran planned. Quietly, steadily. With every ounce of intention she’d once poured into youth retreats and Bible study lessons, she rewrote the final chapter of her story.
A side view of a young woman | Source: Midjourney
And when she passed, we honored her the way she would’ve wanted. Without hypocrisy. The service was held in a modest funeral home, not the church. Just soft music, folding chairs, and people who showed up.
My grandfather made that call.
“They don’t get to grieve her in public when they ignored her in private,” he said.
He stood at the front of the room that day. Gran’s worn leather Bible pressed to his chest like a shield. His voice didn’t shake. He wasn’t angry, just honest.
An old Bible and a vase of flowers | Source: Midjourney
“The church she gave her life to gave her nothing in return. They abandoned our Eleanor. And when she was dying, they came to ask for her money, not her forgiveness, not her blessing. Just her estate.”
We sang “It Is Well with My Soul,” the same hymn that my grandmother used to hum while kneading dough in her kitchen. We passed the mic and people stood up to share stories. About Gran’s cornbread, her Sunday hugs, the time she drove a van full of rowdy teens to the next state and kept her cool with nothing but peppermint oil and a firm voice.
She was remembered, not for her giving, but for who she gave herself to.
A bottle of peppermint essential oil | Source: Midjourney
Two weeks later, we gathered for the reading of the will. Denise, Gran’s lawyer, had been in her Bible study group years ago. She wore soft blue that day and smiled gently at all of us before opening the folder in her lap.
I was surprised to see the Pastors walk in, dressed to the nines, looking around the room like they owned it.
“I heard she left something to the church,” Pastor M. said to no one in particular. He smirked like he already knew he was getting a windfall.
A lawyer wearing a blue pantsuit | Source: Midjourney
The will began.
To Grandpa, her husband of 54 years, Gran left her portion of the house and their joint savings, and a letter about the first time they danced barefoot in the kitchen.
“You gave me the strength to give to everyone else,” she wrote. “Now, I give it all back to you, my love.”
A smiling old man | Source: Midjourney
To me, she left her recipe book, her first Bible with the pages worn soft from love, and a bracelet she said she bought when I was born because the stone reminded her of my eyes.
“My Callie girl, you’re the light of every room. You’ve been one of the brightest lights in my life, sweetheart.”
To the others, she left quilts she had sewn herself, heirlooms tucked into labeled boxes, small accounts for the kids’ college funds, and handwritten notes folded like prayers.
A pensive young woman | Source: Midjourney
Then Denise paused. She looked directly at the two pastors and cleared her throat.
“This next portion is directed toward the Pastors. It is a personal statement from Eleanor.”
Denise unfolded a second piece of paper and began to read.
“To the pastors of the church I once called home:
A letter on a desk | Source: Midjourney
I loved you. I served the Lord alongside you. I gave you decades of my life. But in my final years, when I could no longer bring you food or money, I became invisible to you. I waited for calls that never came. I invited you in, and you stayed away.
You left me alone. Until it was time to collect. And then, all you wanted was what I could give you. Not my stories. Not my fears. Not my prayers. Just my assets.
An older woman standing outside a church | Source: Midjourney
I once planned to leave 20% of my estate to the church. I believed in the mission. I believed in you.
Pastor J., you ignored me.
Pastor M., you reduced me to a transaction.
For that, you each receive one cent.
My final donation has gone instead to Reverend Lila Hayes. She brought me meals. She prayed with me. She sat with Walter and Callie and my children. She was at the hands and feet of the Lord when you were just the mouth. You broke my heart. But I won’t let you profit from it.”
A smiling woman in a navy dress | Source: Midjourney
“This is unnecessary,” Pastor J. muttered. “Cruel.”
“No,” my grandfather said, rising beside me. “What you did was cruel. This is just truth. And it’s long overdue.”
They left without another word.
The money that my grandmother donated was enough to fund a year of the church’s charity pantry, legal aid for foster families, and new books for their children’s literacy program.
A stack of children’s books | Source: Midjourney
“Your grandmother was a light. Thank you for letting her shine one more time.”
And that was my grandmother, Eleanor.
“Hopefully those fools have learned their lesson, Callie,” Grandpa Walter said. “It’s in the Lord’s hands now.”
A smiling older woman standing outside a church | Source: Midjourney
If you’ve enjoyed this story, here’s another one for you |
For eight years, Clover has kept Sanctum Noctis hidden, a secret safe house for children with nowhere else to go. But when one of them makes a mistake, she’s forced into a deadly game with Michael… the man she once escaped. This time, she’s not running. This time, she fights.
This work is inspired by real events and people, but it has been fictionalized for creative purposes. Names, characters, and details have been changed to protect privacy and enhance the narrative. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, or actual events is purely coincidental and not intended by the author.
The author and publisher make no claims to the accuracy of events or the portrayal of characters and are not liable for any misinterpretation. This story is provided “as is,” and any opinions expressed are those of the characters and do not reflect the views of the author or publisher.
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