When I was 39, I met Elias—a charming, thoughtful man who made me feel safe just by standing beside me. We married a year later, and I loved him more than I ever thought possible.
Then he got sick. Stage 4 pancreatic cancer.
For two years, I cared for him—feeding, bathing, and holding him through the pain. His children, Maya and Jordan, rarely visited. They were “too busy” and said they couldn’t handle seeing their father that way. But I handled it. Until the very end.
The day after the funeral, they came to my home.
“We’re selling the house,” Jordan announced.
Maya barely looked up from her phone. “Dad left it to us. You need to be out by the end of the week.”
I thought it was a mistake. But when Jordan threw a notarized will onto the table, reality hit. Everything was theirs.
A week later, as I stood on the sidewalk with two suitcases, my phone buzzed.
A message from an unknown number:
“Check storage unit 112 on Fremont. Dad wanted you to have it.”
