“If he hadn’t been rushing home to you and those children, he’d still be alive.”
The words landed like blows.
Two days later, I took the kids out for ice cream. It felt like the smallest attempt at normalcy, but I was desperate for anything that felt familiar.
When we pulled back into our street, my breath caught in my throat.
Our belongings were piled on the curb in black trash bags.
Emma’s favorite blanket spilled out of one bag, fluttering in the breeze.
I ran to the door. My key didn’t work.
I knocked. Pounded.
The door opened to reveal Margaret, standing in the doorway like she belonged there.
“This house is mine now,” she said coldly. “You and your children need to leave.”
That was the moment I realized something terrifying.
Margaret hadn’t just crossed a line.
She had declared war.
