The grief of losing my husband George was unbearable enough—until my stepdaughter Susan came knocking with demands that shattered our family forever.
For 25 years, I loved Susan as my own. When she stopped visiting George during his cancer battle, I made excuses for her. When she skipped his funeral, I swallowed my hurt. But nothing prepared me for the day she showed up with legal documents demanding “her share” of George’s estate.
“You’re not even my real mother!” she screamed when I refused to sign blank papers. The words cut deeper than any knife.
What Susan didn’t know? George had secretly transferred everything to me years earlier—leaving just $3,000 and an old car in his name. When I finally gave her “exactly what her father left,” her rage was volcanic.
Now, from my seaside villa halfway across the world, I sometimes wonder if Susan ever thinks about the mother who raised her—or just the money she lost. Either way, I’ve found my peace.
