I met Alaric when I was 39. He was 52, kind, caring—the sort of guy who made you feel safe just by being around. We got married a year later, and I loved him in ways I didn’t know love could reach.
Then he got sick. Stage 4 pancreatic cancer. The kind that hits fast.
For two years, I fed him, washed him, and held him through the pain. His kids, Ophelia and Callum, stopped by now and then, but they never stayed long. They said work was too hectic, and they “couldn’t deal” with seeing their dad like that.
But I dealt with it. Every day. Every night.
Until his last breath. The day after the funeral, they showed up at our house. My house.
“We’re selling the place,” Callum said, sitting in Alaric’s favorite chair, arms crossed like he was in charge. Ophelia stood nearby, glued to her phone. “Dad left it to us.
You need to be out by the end of the week.”
I thought they were joking. “Alaric wouldn’t do that.”
But Callum tossed a folder onto the table. A will.
Signed. Official. The house, the bank accounts—everything—was theirs.
“You can keep your clothes, of course,” Ophelia said, like she was being nice. I stared at the papers, my head spinning. “This doesn’t make sense.
I was his wife. I—”
“Yeah,” Callum cut in. “But you’re not our mom.”
And just like that, I meant nothing to them.
A week later, I stood on the sidewalk with two suitcases, watching strangers walk through my home, talking about the “nice wooden floors” I’d cleaned myself. Then my phone buzzed. A text from an unknown number.
“Check the storage unit on Cedar Street. Locker 108. Dad wanted you to have it.”
I stared at the screen, heart pounding.
Alaric 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 place on Cedar Street.
It wasn’t far, but every mile felt heavy. What if this was a mean trick? Or worse, what if it was empty?
The manager handed me a key after checking my ID. “Locker 108 is yours now,” he said with a small smile. I walked through rows of metal doors until I found the right one.
My hands shook as I turned the key. The door creaked open, showing a small space with boxes and a wooden chest. In the first box, I found photo albums—pictures of Alaric and me in happier times.
Beach trips, birthdays, lazy Sundays. There were also letters in Alaric’s handwriting addressed to me. I sat on the floor and opened the first one.
Dear Estelle,
If you’re reading this, I’m gone where you can’t follow—not yet, anyway. I hope these words give you comfort. I’m sorry for what my kids are putting you through.
They don’t get what we had, and maybe they never will. In this locker, you’ll find things I kept for you. Things I couldn’t give you directly because family stuff gets messy.
I’m sorry I didn’t tell you sooner. I wanted to keep you out of any fights while I was here. I love you more than words can say.
Always yours, Alaric
Tears blurred my eyes as I folded the letter and put it back in its envelope. I wiped my face and kept going through the boxes. In another, I found jewelry—a pearl necklace, diamond earrings, and a gold bracelet carved with Always Mine.
The story doesn’t end here — it continues on the next page.
Tap READ MORE to discover the rest 🔎👇
