08/22/2025
I TOOK CARE OF MY HUSBAND DURING HIS BATTLE WITH CANCER — BUT WHEN HE DIED, HIS CHILDREN THREW ME OUT ON THE STREET
I met Elias when I was 39. He was 52 — charming, caring, the kind of man who makes you feel completely safe. We got married a year later, and I loved him in a way I didn’t even know was possible.
And then he got sick.
Pancreatic cancer. Stage 4. The kind that leaves no time.
For two years I fed him, bathed him, held his hand through the waves of pain. His children, Maya and Jordan, visited him from time to time, but never stayed long. They always had work, and they “couldn’t handle” seeing their father like that.
But I handled it. Every day. Every night. Until his very last breath.
And the day after the funeral, they showed up at our home. At MY home.
“We’re selling the house,” Jordan said, sitting in Elias’s favorite chair with his arms crossed like he owned the place.
Maya stood nearby scrolling through her phone:
“Dad left everything to us. You need to move out by the end of the week.”
I thought it was a cruel joke.
“Elias would never do that.”
But Jordan just tossed a folder onto the coffee table. The will. Signed. Notarized.
The house, the bank accounts — everything was in their names.
“You can keep your clothes, of course,” Maya added, as if she were doing me a favor.
I stared at the papers, the ground slipping out from under me.
“This doesn’t make sense. I was his wife. I—”
“Yes,” Jordan cut me off. “But you weren’t our mother.”
And in that moment, I realized that to them, I was nothing.
A week later, I was standing on the sidewalk with two suitcases, watching strangers wander through my home, admiring the “charming wooden floors” I had once polished with my own hands.
Then suddenly, my phone buzzed.
A message from an unknown number.
“Check the storage unit on Fremont. Locker 112. Dad wanted you to have this.”
I stared at the screen, my heart pounding.
Because Elias had never mentioned a storage unit.
And I had no idea who could have sent that message.
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