I had been counting down the days to my grandson Jake’s first Little League game. After years of helping him practice in our backyard—just like I once did with his father—I was bursting with pride. I made a glittery sign, bought a custom shirt with Jake’s number, and even prepared my special orange slices for the team.

But the night before the big day, my daughter-in-law, Bethany, called with disappointing news: “Only parents are allowed at the game—it’s a league rule,” she said. My heart sank. I tried to hide my disappointment, trusting her explanation. There’ll be other games, I told myself.

Game day came with sunny skies. I stayed home, quietly cheering Jake on in my heart. But then, my phone buzzed. It was a text from my neighbor Patty—her grandson plays in the same league. Attached was a photo from the field… and in it, I saw not just parents, but grandparents, siblings, even a family dog.

Bethany had lied to me.

I sat there, heartbroken—not just because I missed Jake’s big moment, but because someone thought I didn’t belong in it. I had been there for Jake through everything, and now I was shut out of a milestone I helped shape.

And that’s a kind of pain I won’t easily forget.