I once believed love could protect me from anything. My husband James promised I’d never worry if I left my finance career to be a stay-at-home mom. I trusted him, and we built a life with our twin daughters, Grace and Ella.

Then, in a tragic instant, James was gone. A car accident took him, leaving me in a haze of grief.

But the worst was yet to come. After the funeral, James’ mother, Judith, revealed she was taking our home back. She’d never had the deed transferred to James. Forced into the garage, I clung to my daughters, hoping for a better future.

Days passed, and I struggled with the painful realities of living in the garage. One day, the girls innocently asked why I wasn’t sleeping in the house, and I explained that sometimes grown-ups make hard decisions.

Then, Judith returned, broken and remorseful. She admitted her mistakes and gave us the house. She had cancer, and in her vulnerability, we began to heal.

Though it wasn’t easy, we took care of each other, proving that despite everything, we were still family.