I met Elias when I was 39. He was 52—charming, steady, the kind of man who made the world feel safer just by being near. We married a year later, and I loved him more deeply than I thought possible.
Then everything changed.
He was diagnosed with stage 4 pancreatic cancer. Aggressive. Unforgiving.
For two years, I cared for him around the clock—feeding him, bathing him, staying by his side through the worst of it. His kids, Maya and Jordan, came around occasionally, but they never stayed long. They always had work, or they said it was too hard to see him like that. But I stayed. I didn’t look away. I was there for every moment—until the last one.
The day after the funeral, they showed up at the home Elias and I shared.
“We’re putting the house on the market,” Jordan announced, lounging in Elias’s favorite chair like he owned the place.
Maya stood nearby, barely glancing up from her phone. “Dad left it to us. You need to be out by Friday.”
I was stunned. “That’s not possible—Elias wouldn’t do that.”
But Jordan tossed a folder onto the table. His will. Signed. Legal. Everything—house, money, assets—went to them.
“You can take your clothes, obviously,” Maya added casually, like that was generous.
I stared at the documents, my heart pounding. “I’m his wife. I—”
“Yeah,” Jordan interrupted. “But you’re not our mom.”
And with that, I was erased.
A week later, I stood on the sidewalk with two suitcases, watching strangers walk through my home—admiring the hardwood floors I had cleaned, the windows I had opened every morning for fresh air.
Then my phone buzzed.
A text. No name.
“Fremont Storage. Locker 112. Your husband wanted you to have it.”
My chest tightened. Elias had never mentioned a storage unit. And I had no idea who sent the message.
The next morning, I rented a car and drove to Fremont Street. It wasn’t far, but each mile weighed heavier than the last. Was this a mistake? A cruel joke? Or something else entirely?
The manager at the storage facility checked my ID, then handed me a small silver key. “It’s yours now,” he said.
I walked down the long row of units, heart pounding, until I reached 112. My hands shook as I turned the lock.
Inside, it was small but carefully arranged—boxes stacked neatly, and a wooden chest sitting in the center.
The first box held photo albums—me and Elias on beach trips, birthdays, quiet Sunday mornings. And letters—handwritten, addressed to me.
I sank to the floor, surrounded by memories. And I opened the first envelope.