Last fall, I finally hit my goal. $14,300 in a savings account labeled CRUISE in all caps, written in Sharpie on a sticky note. Every time I added a little more, I’d imagine the deck under my feet, the sea breeze, a glass of wine at sunset.
But last month, everything changed.
My son came to my house with red-rimmed eyes. His voice shook. “Mom, it’s Ethan. He’s sick.”
My 6-year-old grandson — bright, hilarious Ethan who loves dinosaurs and eats way too many grapes — had been diagnosed with a rare autoimmune disease. The treatments were aggressive. Insurance wouldn’t cover everything.
They were short on money.
“We need your help,” he said.
I listened. I cried. I asked questions.
And then, I said something no mother or grandmother ever thinks she’ll say.
“I’m sorry. But I will not sacrifice my happiness. Not this time.”
My son blinked. Smiled — but not kindly. It was that smile people wear when they’re done pretending.
“This is the last time you’ll see us,” he said quietly. “Enjoy your cruise.”