They threw me and my six children out into the rain before my husband’s grave was even dry. My father-in-law pointed at the door and said, “Your husband is d3ad. This house belongs to the family.”

Harold struck him.

The sound echoed through the yard.

Mara moved instantly, catching her son before he fell. Her voice was low but fierce. “Don’t you ever touch my child again.”

Harold smirked. “Or what? You’ll cry?”

Celeste leaned closer. “My son married beneath him. We tolerated you because he insisted. Now he’s gone—and so is your protection.”

Mara looked at the house—the white columns, the iron gates, the place where she had raised her children and watched her husband slowly fade away.

She could have screamed.

Instead, she picked up the muddy suitcases.

“Children,” she said softly. “We’re leaving.”

“Good,” Harold replied. “And don’t come back.”