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She didn’t argue, didn’t even shed a tear. She simply nodded, gathered her children, and quietly began packing their things. I took her calmness as acceptance, unaware that behind it was something much deeper. Days later, I found a letter on the kitchen table — one she had written to my son before he passed. My hands trembled as I unfolded it.
In the letter, she thanked him for convincing me to let them stay all those years. She wrote how grateful she was that he had paid rent every month without telling me, just so I wouldn’t feel used. Every decision she made, every quiet moment, was out of respect for me and my son’s memory. Reading her words filled me with both sorrow and shame — I had judged her unfairly.
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