My son was 33 when he fell gravely ill. It was sudden and devastating. His wife didn’t hesitate. She looked at the man she promised to love in sickness and in health with pure disgust. “I won’t waste my life watching him turn into a vegetable,” she said—and walked away. She packed her bags and vanished, blocking our numbers.
I didn’t have much, but I had love. I sold my house. Every last thing I owned. I moved into his small apartment. I paid for his treatment, cooked for him, bathed him, and held his hand through the nights when pain wouldn’t let him sleep. I watched my strong boy fade away, whispering that he was loved every single day.
I was the only one there until his last breath.
But the moment the obituary was published, she reappeared. After the funeral, his wife inherited everything and kicked me out. Since they were still legally married, the law was on her side. She stood in the living room I had cleaned, sneering at me. “You have 24 hours to get your junk out of my house,” she said. “I’m selling it.”
I was broken. I had no money, no home, and no son.
While packing, I found a shoebox under my son’s bed. It was taped shut with a note on top: “For Mom. Open only if SHE comes back.”
My hands trembled as I opened it. Inside wasn’t cash. It was a thick legal document and a USB drive.
It was a holographic will, written and notarized three months ago during a period of remission I didn’t know he had utilized. In it, he detailed her abandonment. He had also secretly finalized a “divorce by publication”—a legal process used when a spouse cannot be located. The judge had signed it two weeks before he died.
But the kicker was the insurance policy. He had taken out a massive policy years ago, and the beneficiary had been changed from “Wife” to “Mother.”
I walked back into the living room where she was measuring the windows for new curtains.
“Actually,” I said, holding up the divorce decree. “You aren’t his widow. You’re just his ex-wife.”
I tossed the eviction notice he had prepared for her on the table.
“This is my house now. You have five minutes to leave, or I’m calling the police for trespassing.”
She left screaming. I used the insurance money to buy back my old house, but I stayed in his apartment—it’s where I feel closest to him.
