“You and your daughter. Out. I’m selling this house,” my mother-in-law Beatrice barked, her voice flat and completely calm as she stood in the doorway of my bedroom in South Bend, Indiana.

It was exactly 15 minutes after we had walked through the front door from my husband Nick’s funeral.

I was still wearing my black dress, my feet aching in my heels.

Our 6-year-old daughter Clara was sitting on the edge of the bed, clutching her knees and crying.

Beatrice didn’t look at Clara. She looked at the custom wooden jewelry box sitting on my dresser.

“Beatrice, please,” I whispered, holding Clara close. “We just buried Nick.”

“I already have buyers coming tomorrow,” she barked. “Pack your bags.”

We bought the Portage Avenue house 8 years ago. It was a modest craftsman house with a small front porch and a maple tree in the yard.

Beatrice owned it. She had inherited it from her father, but she didn’t want to live in South Bend.

She preferred her large colonial home in Granger, where the streets were quiet and the lawns were manicured.

She offered to sell it to Nick and me on a land contract. We were young, newly married, and eager to build a life.

The deal was simple: we would pay her 1,200 dollars a month for 8 years, and once the final payment was made, she would sign the deed transfer.

We trusted her. She was Nick’s mother.

Nick was a railroad machinist, working long shifts at the Norfolk Southern yard. His hands were always stained with grease, and he wore heavy canvas shirts.

I worked as a title searcher at the county recorder’s office, scrolling through digitized deed registries and property databases.

We didn’t have much money, but we were frugal. We clipped coupons for Meijer, bought our groceries in bulk, and drove a 12-year-old Chevy Impala with rust spots on the wheel wells.

We rarely went out to eat. Every dollar went toward the house and Clara’s future.

For Nick’s 30th birthday, I saved for 6 months to buy him a set of brass machinist tools.