She never said it to my face—at least not at first—but I sensed her condemnation in every cold look. Once, I heard her over the phone line in the hallway.
"She trapped him. They're not even his."
Her words pierced me like ice. I stood there, the dishes in my hand, my body frozen, and my heart broken.
When I told Jason about it, he didn't excuse her. He pulled me toward him and said with calm conviction:
"You and the children are my family. The story is over."
Shortly thereafter, we moved further away. He told Eleanor clearly: Accept her—or stay away. She chose to remain silent.
The call no one wants
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 taken his life instantly.
The following days blurred into flowers, black clothes, and 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 once.
"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 were scattered across 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.
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