I’ve lived long enough to remember Elvis in a truck, raised three children, buried my husband Paul, and worked double shifts at Mel’s Diner. After Paul died, I promised whatever I had left would go to my granddaughter, Miranda. With her father lost to addiction and her mother gone, I became “Mama” again. Every coupon clipped, every pie sold, every dollar saved went into a lockbox. By Miranda’s 16th birthday, I had $42,000.

Then she changed. The book-loving girl turned to followers and likes. One day, I found the lockbox gone. Miranda had used the money to buy a cherry-red Honda. Twenty days later, she wrecked it. Sitting in the hospital, sling on her arm, she whispered, “I lost everything.” “No,” I told her. “You stole from yourself.” I let the lesson stand.

She stumbled for a while, but at graduation she handed me a note I’d left in the lockbox years ago: If you throw this money away, you’re not stealing from me—you’re stealing from yourself. Through tears, she said, “I get it now.”

What Miranda doesn’t know is that Paul left an inheritance—$120,000 in her name. I’ll give it to her when she’s ready. Now in nursing school, she comes home glowing. She’s not the girl chasing likes—she’s becoming the woman I prayed for.