Jason and I had been married just two short years, but what we built together had the strength of a lifetime. He didn’t just love me—he chose my children, Ava and Noah, without hesitation.
His mother, Eleanor, didn’t see it that way.
She never said it to my face—at least not at first—but I felt her judgment in every cold glance. I heard her, once, through the hallway phone line.
“She trapped him. They’re not even his.”
Her words cracked through me like ice. I stood there, dishes in hand, my body frozen and my heart bruised.
When I told Jason, he didn’t excuse her. He pulled me in and said with quiet certainty:
“You and the kids are my family. Story over.”
We moved further away not long after. He told Eleanor plainly: accept them—or stay away. She chose silence.
