At my husband’s funeral, I could barely hold myself together—let alone explain death to our daughter, Ellie. Her tiny hand clung to mine as we stood by the grave. “Why are they putting dirt on Daddy? How will he go to work tomorrow?” she whispered. I had no answer. Grief had made me hollow. The house was filled with food and condolences, but I couldn’t eat. I escaped to my room and cried like the world had cracked open—until Linda, my mother-in-law, walked in and quietly told me to leave.

“The house is mine,” she said. “I’m selling it.” I was stunned. My husband never changed the deed. Legally, she was right. And by the next morning, a realtor and buyers stood on my porch. The home still smelled like him—his boots by the door, his toothbrush in the bathroom—and she was already erasing us.

I moved Ellie and myself to a dingy roadside motel. That night, I stared at the house listing online. I wasn’t giving up. I called Abby, my best friend—and a lawyer. “Help me save the house,” I said. The next day, we returned to make an offer. Linda laughed. “You don’t have that kind of money.”

But she didn’t know everything.

Abby handed over my husband’s life insurance policy. I was the sole beneficiary. Linda had already emptied his account and now owed me the full house price. Her face fell. With a few signatures, justice was done.

Ellie twirled through our front door. “Is this ours again?” she asked.

“Yes, baby. Ours forever.”