I CARED FOR MY HUSBAND THROUGH CANCER—WHEN HE DIED, HIS KIDS THREW ME ON THE STREET I met Elias when I was 39. He was 52, charming, thoughtful—the kind of man who made you feel safe just by standing next to him. We married a year later, and I loved him in ways I didn’t even know love could stretch. Then he got sick. Stage 4 pancreatic cancer. The kind that doesn’t wait. For two years, I fed him, bathed him, held him through the pain. His kids, Maya and Jordan, visited once in a while, but they never stayed long. Work was always so demanding, and they “couldn’t handle” seeing their father like that. But I handled it. Every day. Every night. Until the last breath left his body. Then, the day after the funeral, they showed up at our house. My house. “We’re selling the property,” Jordan said, sitting in Elias’s favorite chair, his arms crossed like a king on a throne. Maya stood next to him, scrolling on her phone. “Dad left it to us. You need to be out by the end of the week.” I thought it was a joke. “Elias would never do that.” But Jordan just tossed a folder onto the coffee table. A will. Signed. Notarized. The house, the bank accounts—everything—was theirs. “You can keep your clothes, obviously,” Maya said, like she was doing me a favor. I stared at the papers, my head spinning. “This doesn’t make sense. I was his wife. I—” “Yeah,” Jordan interrupted. “But you weren’t our mother.” And just like that, I was nothing to them. A week later, I stood on the sidewalk with two suitcases, watching strangers tour my home, commenting on the “charming hardwood floors” I had polished with my own hands. Then my phone buzzed. A message from an unknown number. “Check the storage unit on Fremont. Locker 112. Dad wanted you to have it.” I stared at the screen, my heart pounding. Because Elias never mentioned a storage unit. And I had no idea who sent the text. — — — continues in the first ⬇️

I spent my days taking care of him. I cared for him, bathed him, and supported him during the agony for two years. Jordan and Maya, his kids, hardly ever came to visit. Even when they did, they didn’t stay long. They would say, “We can’t bear to see dad like this.” And since I was the one who could, the one who wanted to make his days easier and let him know how much he was loved, I was okay with it.

My husband died tragically, and his kids visited the house I shared with their father the day after his funeral, telling me I had until the end of the week to vacate.
They stated, as icily as though I had no significance to them, “Dad left the house to us and we are selling it.”

A few days later, I was carrying two suitcases that weighed as much as Elias’ kids’ betrayal.

I stood in front of the house I used to call home, wondering what my life would be like going forward, since I had nowhere to stay.

However, a text message interrupted my train of thought. Examine the Fremont storage unit. Locker 112. Elias desired for you to possess it.

The number from which the message was sent was unknown. “Is this a joke of some kind?” Despite my doubts, I chose to inspect that storage unit.

It felt like it took forever to get to the unit. I didn’t know what to anticipate.

The manager checked my ID and gave me a key when I got there. He smiled as he said, “Locker 112 is yours now.”

My hands began to shake as I inserted the key. Slowly, the door opened to reveal a small room filled with boxes and a single wooden chest.

I was also the recipient of some letters.
As it turned out, my husband wanted to protect my future because he knew how greedy his kids were. There was a collection of jewelry, probably belonging to his late wife, among the letters he wrote about his love for me. Additionally, there were deeds for three vacation houses in various locations across the nation, all in my name.

A purple pouch was inside the wooden chest. The largest diamond ring I’ve ever seen was nestled inside of it.

After several months, I began to flourish. I found my peace when I moved into one of the vacation houses in the Colorado mountains.