At 31 years old, while other women were decorating nurseries and picking out baby names, I was picking flowers for my husband’s casket. My name is Colleen. And this is the story of how my husband’s family tried to steal the last piece of him I had left.
Ethan was everything they weren’t. He was kind when they were cruel. He was gentle when they were harsh.
They never forgave him for choosing architecture instead of medicine. To them, it was like he’d thrown away the family name. They cut him off like some infected part of their perfect image.
Seven long years passed. Seven years of holidays with just the two of us. Seven years where they acted like their own son didn’t exist.
But Margaret—his grandmother—was different. She was the only one in his family who ever really saw Ethan. She understood his passion.
She saw the light in his eyes when he sketched buildings on napkins at dinner or stayed up late designing homes with impossible angles that somehow worked. When we got engaged, Margaret took my hand in hers—thin and frail, but still full of strength—and pressed her heirloom ring into my palm. Her voice shook, but her words were firm:
“This belongs with you now, dear.
Promise me you’ll take care of it like you’re taking care of him.”
“I promise, Margaret,” I whispered, trying not to cry. I had spent her last year alive taking her to every doctor’s appointment. I cooked her meals.
I read to her when her eyesight got too bad. She became my family too. Our wedding was simple.
Just us, two friends as witnesses, Margaret, and a grumpy judge who looked like he wanted to be anywhere else. Ethan wore his dad’s old tie—the only thing he’d kept from that house. I wore Margaret’s ring and a clearance-rack dress I had found at the department store.
Before we walked into the courtroom, Ethan brushed a curl from my face. “You look beautiful,” he said, adjusting my veil. “Even in this old thing?”
“Especially in that old thing.
My family doesn’t know what they’re missing.”
We used to lie in bed late at night, whispering about the future. How many kids we’d have. The names.
Whether they’d get his wild curls or my stubborn streak. It all felt so close. Like we were just one season away from it all becoming real.
Then, three months ago, everything shattered. A foreman called me from Ethan’s construction site. There had been a scaffolding collapse.
The story doesn’t end here — it continues on the next page.
Tap READ MORE to discover the rest 🔎👇
