When Mercy General called, I knew what was going on before the doctor was even finished.

“We did everything we could… I’m sorry.”

The car accident had cost him his life instantly.

The following days blurred into flowers, black clothes, and a grief so heavy it felt like drowning.

At the funeral, Eleanor sat stiffly and inscrutably in the pew opposite. After the service, she approached me with a face that had never softened.

“This is your fault,” she whispered sharply. “If he hadn’t kept running to you, he’d still be alive.”

I didn’t answer. My heart was already empty. There was no room for her bitterness.

Then she did the unthinkable.

Two days after the funeral, I took the children out to distract them—a quiet picnic in the park, just the three of us.

Garbage bags lay scattered on the grass. Toys, clothes, books—Ava’s pink blanket was tangled in the bushes.

She cried. Noah stood there, stunned. The house key no longer fit.

I banged on the door. Eleanor opened it, satisfied.

“You are not welcome here. This house belongs to me. Take your brats and leave.”

“This is our home,” I said with a trembling voice.

“It belonged to my son. If you don’t have a lawyer in your diaper bag, good luck.”

She slammed the door.

That night, I turned the back seat of our car into a “camping trip.” Ava cried herself to sleep. Noah whispered:

“Dad wouldn’t allow that.”

“And I won’t,” I said, holding him tight.

But Jason had already protected us