I met Elias when I was 39. He was 52, charming, thoughtful—the kind of man who made you feel safe just by standing next to him. We married a year later, and I loved him in ways I didn’t even know love could stretch.

For two years, I fed him, bathed him, held him through the pain. His kids, Maya and Jordan, visited once in a while, but they never stayed long. Work was always so demanding, and they “couldn’t handle” seeing their father like that. But I handled it. Every day. Every night. Until the last breath left his body.

Then, the day after the funeral, they showed up at our house. My house.

“We’re selling the property,” Jordan said, sitting in Elias’s favorite chair, his arms crossed like a king on a throne.

Maya stood next to him, scrolling on her phone. “Dad left it to us. You need to be out by the end of the week.”

I thought it was a joke. “Elias would never do that.”

But Jordan just tossed a folder onto the coffee table. A will. Signed. Notarized. The house, the bank accounts—everything—was theirs.

“You can keep your clothes, obviously,” Maya said, like she was doing me a favor.

I stared at the papers, my head spinning. “This doesn’t make sense. I was his wife. I—”

“Yeah,” Jordan interrupted. “But you weren’t our mother.”

And just like that, I was nothing to them.

A week later, I stood on the sidewalk with two suitcases, watching strangers tour my home, commenting on the “charming hardwood floors” I had polished with my own hands.

Then my phone buzzed.

A message from an unknown number.

“Check the storage unit on Fremont. Locker 112. Dad wanted you to have it.”

I stared at the screen, my heart pounding. Because Elias never mentioned a storage unit.

And I had no idea who sent the text.

The next morning, I rented a car and drove to the storage facility on Fremont Street. It wasn’t far, but every mile felt heavier than the last. What if this was some cruel prank? Or worse, what if it was empty?

When I arrived, the manager handed me a key after checking my ID. “Locker 112 is yours now,” he said with a polite smile.

I walked down the rows of metal doors until I found the right one. My hands trembled as I inserted the key and turned it. The door creaked open, revealing a small space filled with boxes and a single wooden chest.

Inside the first box, I found photo albums—pictures of Elias and me during happier times. Beach trips, birthdays, lazy Sunday mornings. There were also letters addressed to me in Elias’s handwriting. I sat cross-legged on the floor and opened the first one.