My father-in-law threw me and my six children out into the pouring rain, shouting, “Only real bl00d belongs in this house.”

“Leave this house with your six kids. You don’t belong here anymore, and my son is gone.

I was more affected by Patrick Callahan’s words than by the rain that fell over Pine Valley at midnight. Sophie, my infant, was nestled against my chest as I stood outside the iron gate.

My mother-in-law had gathered together two garbage bags and school bags, and my five other kids were shivering behind me.

Just one week had passed after the burial of my husband, Andrew.

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That was all it took for his parents to turn their sorrow into greed.

“Please, Patrick,” I said, attempting to maintain my composure. “Your grandchildren are these.” Andrew also lived here.

Wearing a pricey cashmere scarf, Margaret Callahan walked next to him.

She stated icily, “It was Andrew’s because we permitted it.” But Cynthia, don’t be confused. You are not one of us just because you married a Callahan.

Benjamin, my thirteen-year-old eldest son, moved forward, his eyes ablaze with rage.

He remarked, “Dad said Mom was supposed to stay here.” “I heard him.”

Patrick’s expression stiffened. Benjamin staggered back, clutching his cheek, a moment later.

A part of me became motionless.

I responded in a hushed voice, “Do not touch my son again.”

Patrick chuckled.

“And what are you going to do? Take us to court? You had nothing when you joined this family. You are nothing.

Grace and Abigail, my girls, were in tears. David and Samuel, the twins, clutched to my skirt. The rain was exacerbating Sophie’s illness.

Margaret gave one of the bags a kick. Clothes fell into the mud.

She stated, “We changed the locks.” “We’ll inform the police that you are unstable if you return.” A widow with six kids and no money? You won’t be believed over us.

I glanced up at the house. The curtains shifted. Family members were observing from within, but no one emerged to assist.

For Andrew’s sake, I had remained silent for fourteen years. I disregarded their taunts. I swallowed their criticism. I allowed them to treat me like a stranger.

But I was done that night.

I guided my kids toward the street while holding Benjamin’s hand. I had nowhere to go and no plan.

My kids, the rain, and a yellow folder in the diaper bag—the folder Andrew had given me before he passed away—were all I had.

He had muttered, “Take this to Rebecca Stone if my parents ever try to push you out.” Wait until you’re in her office before opening it. Make me a promise.

I turned around after stopping in the driveway.

I added, “You should find out who really owns this house before you settle in.”

In an instant, Patrick’s expression transformed.

Margaret’s smile faded.

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