When I married Ryan two years ago, I knew his mother, Margaret, despised me. Her disdain extended to my children, Emma and Liam, from my previous marriage. Despite Ryan’s reassurances, Margaret never warmed up to us. During one Sunday dinner, I overheard her calling me a gold-digger. When I told Ryan, he vowed to address it.

We moved to a peaceful neighborhood, far from Margaret, and Ryan embraced my children as his own. Then came the phone call. “Your husband has been in an accident. It’s serious.” The doctor’s grim expression told me everything. At the funeral, Margaret blamed me. “If he hadn’t been rushing home to you, he’d still be alive.” Days later, we returned from an outing to find our belongings on the curb.