I loved my husband Elias more than life itself. I was 39 and he was 52 when we first met. He was the most considerate and endearing man I have ever met.

We got married after a year of dating, and everything in our lives seemed ideal. But a few years later, he received a stage 4 pancreatic cancer diagnosis.

I spent my days taking care of him. I cared for him, bathed him, and supported him during the agony for two years. Jordan and Maya, his kids, hardly ever came to visit. Even when they did, they didn’t stay long. They would say, “We can’t bear to see dad like this.” And since I was the one who could, the one who wanted to make his days easier and let him know how much he was loved, I was okay with it.

My husband died tragically, and his kids visited the house I shared with their father the day after his funeral, telling me I had until the end of the week to vacate.
They stated, as icily as though I had no significance to them, “Dad left the house to us and we are selling it.”

A few days later, I was carrying two suitcases that weighed as much as Elias’ kids’ betrayal. Continues…