Two days after the funeral, I took the kids out to distract them—a quiet park picnic, just the three of us.
Trash bags spilled over the grass. Toys, clothes, books—Ava’s pink blanket tangled in the bushes.
She cried. Noah stood still, stunned. The house key no longer fit.
I pounded on the door. Eleanor opened it, satisfied.
“You’re not welcome here. This house is mine. Take your brats and go.”
“This is our home,” I said, my voice shaking.
“It was my son’s. Unless you’ve got a lawyer in your diaper bag, good luck.”
She slammed the door.
That night, I turned the back seat of our car into a “camping trip.” Ava cried herself to sleep. Noah whispered:
“And I won’t either,” I said, holding him close.
But Jason Had Already Protected Us
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