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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 ⬇️
