My boyfriend, Evan, spent three years building a house with his own two hands. Not a contractor-built home, not a designer project—every piece of wood, every tile, every corner of that place was something he shaped himself. He worked late after his shifts, saved every dollar, and refused shortcuts because he wanted it to be perfect.
“This will be our place,” he used to say. “A home we build together, not just somewhere we live.”
And then life changed in a way I never expected. One night on his way home, a drunk driver sped through a red light. In a single moment, the future we’d imagined disappeared. Evan was gone before anyone could reach me.
The house stood almost finished, quiet and waiting, while everything in me fell apart. For months, I couldn’t bring myself to visit. Every wall, every beam felt like a promise frozen in time. I wasn’t ready to face it, so I locked the door and stepped away, not knowing when—if ever—I would return.
Then Evan’s family reached out.
His parents, Margaret and Leon, and his younger sister, Anna, began calling. They said they wanted the house. Not to sell it, they assured me, but to “keep it in the family.”
Margaret said it gently, but it still stung.
“It was Evan’s legacy. It should stay with his blood.”
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