When Jason died, my world didn’t just collapse—it crumbled piece by piece. But what shook me most wasn’t the grief of his loss. It was the cruelty that followed.
I expected to grieve with my family. Instead, I had to defend my children and our home against someone who was supposed to be supporting us—his mother.
He was there for her, from bedtime stories to pancakes for breakfast, picking her up from school, and fixing her bike. He never tried to replace her father. He simply became her home. Our beginning wasn’t a traditional one, but it was a real one.
His mother Eleanor saw things differently.
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.
“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.
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