When my mother passed away, I thought I’d inherit the house. I was her only daughter. But instead of a will, the lawyer handed me a letter. Her final wish? That I leave my husband within three days—or lose the house forever.

It wasn’t shocking. My mother had watched me suffer quietly in my own home. Jason hadn’t worked in years. He sat on the couch, ignored our daughter Lily, and mocked every small effort I made to keep us together. Mom saw through it. She always did. And now, from beyond the grave, she was still trying to protect me.

At first, I was angry. Hurt. How could she ask this of me while I was grieving her? But then came the night Jason stumbled in past midnight, reeking of beer and perfume. I confronted him, and he didn’t even flinch. “Maybe if you took better care of yourself…” he said. That was it. The last crack in the dam.

The next morning, Lily asked why I was crying. I tried to hide it, but her little voice cut through me: “Do you want me to marry someone like Daddy?” I couldn’t breathe. I held her tight, and I knew then—I wasn’t just deciding for myself. I was deciding for her too.

I filed for divorce that day. When I handed Jason the papers, he laughed. But I didn’t waver. I wasn’t afraid anymore.

For the first time in years, the house was quiet. And for the first time ever, it finally felt like mine.