I met Elias when I was 39. He was 52—warm, thoughtful, and the kind of man who made you feel truly seen. We connected quickly and deeply, and within a year, we were married. Life with him felt like a second chance at something extraordinary.
But just a few years into our marriage, everything changed. Elias received a serious diagnosis, and from that day forward, I became his full-time caregiver. I was there for him through every difficult moment—managing appointments, offering comfort, and simply being present.
His adult children, Jordan and Maya, visited only occasionally. They said it was hard to watch their father go through so much, and maybe it was. But I stayed—because that’s what love does.
Then, one quiet morning, Elias passed.
I barely had time to grieve when Jordan and Maya showed up at the house Elias and I had shared. There were no condolences—just a firm announcement: “Dad left the house to us. We’re selling it. You need to be out by the end of the week.”
I stood there stunned, trying to process not only my grief, but the sudden loss of my home. The place where I had cared for him, where we had built a life together, was no longer mine.
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