I met Elias when I was 39. He was 52, charming, thoughtful—the kind of man who made you feel safe just by standing next to him. We married a year later, and I loved him in ways I didn’t even know love could stretch.

Then, he got stage 4 pancreatic cancer. It didn’t wait.

For two years, I cared for him, through pain and everything in between. His kids, Maya and Jordan, visited occasionally but couldn’t bear to see their father suffer. I handled it all until his last breath.

The day after the funeral, they came to our house. “We’re selling the property,” Jordan said, sitting in Elias’s chair.

Maya barely looked up from her phone. “Dad left it to us. You need to leave by the end of the week.”

I thought it was a joke. “Elias would never do that.”

But Jordan slapped a folder on the table—will, notarized. Everything was theirs. Just like that, I was nothing to them.

A week later, I stood on the sidewalk with two suitcases. Then my phone buzzed.

A message from an unknown number.

“Check the storage unit on Fremont. Locker 112. Dad wanted you to have it.”