After raising her granddaughter alone following her son’s death, Catherine believed the worst days were behind them. But she realized some people could be far crueler than she ever imagined.
Sixteen years ago, at 56, I was still bouncing between tiny rental apartments, scraping by with whatever work I could find. My son, Adrian, had already achieved what I never could.
At twenty-nine, he bought a modest one-story house for his wife, Vanessa, and their little girl, Lily. He was a construction worker, his hands calloused and strong, but his dreams were bigger than the concrete and timber he shaped every day.
