After a heart attack left me struggling financially, I asked my grandson Eric, whom I’d always supported, for help. He refused. Turning to my son Ben, I was shocked when he accused me of never trusting him, always favoring Eric. Stung, I admitted I’d been closer to Eric, perhaps because he reminded me of my late wife. Ben gave me $300, barely enough for bills, and questioned why Eric didn’t help.

Humbled, I sought work at my old store, but the owner, Martin, could only offer coffee and a discreet $20. Outside, I met Isaac, a young runaway, and gave him the money for food. We talked, and I connected him with a shelter.

Isaac visited often, sharing meals and fixing things around my apartment. He felt like a grandson. I burned Eric’s tuition receipts, letting go of past hurts. Ben later apologized, and we began rebuilding our bond with Sunday breakfasts.

Months later, Eric called, defensive about Isaac “replacing” him. I told him love is earned through respect. Eventually, Eric returned, apologetic, with a photo from his graduation. We reconciled. That Sunday, Ben, Eric, and Isaac shared a meal at my table.

Family drifted apart but found its way back. Isaac, not blood but chosen, showed me love is a choice, not just a bond.