After my husband died, the house felt painfully empty, as though silence itself had settled into every room. For months, my days had revolved around hospital visits, medication schedules, and restless nights spent listening for his breathing. When that chapter ended, grief was joined by anxiety about bills, the mortgage, and how I would manage alone. With only my nineteen-year-old stepson, Leo, still living at home, the future felt uncertain, and fear weighed heavily on every decision I made.
One evening, overwhelmed by finances, I asked Leo if he could help by paying rent. I expected understanding, but his response felt casual and dismissive. He joked that I didn’t need to worry and that things would work out. Exhausted and hurt, I took his tone as indifference. By morning, convinced he wasn’t taking my situation seriously, I reacted out of pride and pain. I changed the locks and began packing his belongings, certain I was protecting myself from further disappointment.
