When my grandsons “surprised” my wife with a trip to Washington, D.C. for her birthday, we thought it was a thoughtful gesture. She was thrilled—packed her suitcase with care, wore her nicest shoes, and told all her friends how sweet the boys were. It felt like a rare moment of connection between generations. But what started as a gift quickly unraveled. They treated her like an ATM—having her cover the hotel, meals, gas, even their souvenirs. She tried to keep the peace, h

hoping maybe it was just bad planning. Then came the final blow: they left her at a gas station outside the city, at midnight, with no explanation. They took her car and went off to party, leaving her alone, frightened, and humiliated. When she called me, her voice was shaking—but she didn’t cry. I picked her up and brought her home. I didn’t yell. I didn’t storm over to their house. But I did make a plan. The following week, I invited the boys on a “getaway”—just the three of us. I told them,