When Mercy General called, I knew before the doctor even finished.
“We did everything we could… I’m sorry.”
The days that followed blurred into flowers, black clothing, and grief so heavy it felt like drowning.
At the funeral, Eleanor sat stiffly on the opposite pew, unreadable. After the service, she approached with a face that had never once softened for me.
“This is your fault,” she whispered, voice sharp. “If he hadn’t kept running to you, he’d still be alive.”
I didn’t answer. My heart was already hollow. There was no room left for her bitterness.
Then She Did the Unthinkable
Two days after the funeral, I took the kids out to distract them—a quiet park picnic, just the three of us.
When we returned, our world was on the lawn.
Trash bags spilled over the grass. Toys, clothes, books—Ava’s pink blanket tangled in the bushes.
She cried. Noah stood still, stunned. The house key no longer fit.
“You’re not welcome here. This house is mine. Take your brats and go.”
“This is our home,” I said, my voice shaking.
“It was my son’s. Unless you’ve got a lawyer in your diaper bag, good luck.”
She slammed the door.
That night, I turned the back seat of our car into a “camping trip.” Ava cried herself to sleep. Noah whispered:
“Dad wouldn’t let this happen.”
“And I won’t either,” I said, holding him close.
