When my husband passed away after a long illness, the house felt painfully silent. People dropped off sympathy cards and then went back to their own lives, leaving me alone with my grief, the bills, and a mortgage we were already struggling to manage. In his will, he left me the house—and almost nothing more. Our savings had been drained by medical treatments I never once regretted.
My nineteen-year-old stepson had been living with us through everything. Eventually, with trembling hands, I asked him to contribute five hundred dollars a month. He laughed and told me I had no children of my own, that it was my duty to support him. I didn’t argue. The next day, I changed the locks.
While packing up his room, I came across a duffel bag with my name written on it. Inside was a passbook labeled Mom’s Retirement Fund—years of small deposits he had made for me. There was also a letter promising that I would never have to face life alone.
That night, I unlocked the door and said I was sorry. For the first time in months, the house finally felt like home again.
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