I devoted two years of my life to caring for Elias as cancer slowly took him from me. His children barely visited, claiming they “couldn’t handle” seeing him that way. But I stayed. I held his hand until the very end.
Then, at the funeral, they handed me an eviction notice. The will left everything to them—our home, our savings, everything. “You have a week to pack,” Maya said, her voice devoid of emotion.
I was numb as I packed my belongings, wondering how I’d start over at 45 with nothing. Then, a text from an unknown number changed everything: “Locker 112 on Fremont Street. It’s yours.”
Inside that storage unit, I found Elias’s final act of love—letters, family heirlooms, and legal documents granting me three vacation homes and a small fortune. He’d hidden it all, knowing his children would try to cut me out.
Now, I wake up every morning in a lakeside cottage, surrounded by the memories of a man who loved me enough to protect me, even after he was gone.
