He had spent four years quietly trying to protect me. Planning for my future. Saving for my safety. And five days before he planned to finally say it out loud, I had called him entitled. I had changed the locks on the house he thought was his home.
For the first time since my husband died, I felt like I had truly failed someone who was still alive.
That night, I unlocked the door.
When my stepson came back, wary and confused, I didn’t mention rent. I didn’t mention money at all.
I handed him the bag, the letter, and said the words I should have said sooner.
“I’m sorry.”
And for the first time in a long while, the house didn’t feel empty anymore.
Note: This story is a work of fiction inspired by real events. Names, characters, and details have been altered. Any resemblance is coincidental. The author and publisher disclaim accuracy, liability, and responsibility for interpretations or reliance. All images are for illustration purposes only.
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