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,Then he got sick, Stage 4 pancreatic cancer,

The kind that doesn’t wait., 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,”