When I married Ryan, his mother, Margaret, made her disdain clear. She ignored me and my children, Emma and Liam, calling me a gold-digger. After Ryan’s tragic car accident, she blamed me and, days later, locked us out of our home, dumping our belongings on the curb.
Desperate, I called Ryan’s lawyer. He revealed Ryan’s will: everything—house, savings, investments—was left to me. Margaret was granted $200,000, but only if she never interfered.
We took her to court. She lost everything. By nightfall, I held new keys, and Margaret’s belongings sat on the curb.
Justice. Served.
Tucking Emma in, she asked, “Is Grandma Margaret going to jail?”
I smiled.
“I don’t know, sweetie. But she can’t hurt us anymore.”
For the first time since Ryan’s death, I felt safe.
I felt home.
