In return, for our 5th anniversary, Nick spent 3 weeks in the garage building a custom wooden jewelry box. He made it from cherry wood, carving our initials on the lid, and lined the inside with soft green velvet.

It was the most beautiful thing I owned. It sat on my dresser, holding our wedding rings and a few small mementos.

Over the 8 years, we never missed a single payment. Nick wrote a check for 1,200 dollars every month, and Beatrice cashed them immediately to fund her lifestyle.

She drove a brand-new white Lincoln, wore designer silk scarves, and spent her winters in Florida.

Nick made the final payment in March. We celebrated in the kitchen, drinking sweet tea and eating homemade peach cobbler.

But Beatrice didn’t sign the deed. Every time Nick asked, she made an excuse.

She was too busy. She had to visit her lawyer. She was leaving for Florida.

We didn’t worry. We believed family didn’t steal from family.

Then, Nick died. It was a sudden brain aneurysm on a Wednesday morning. He collapsed at work and never woke up.

The funeral was on a Saturday. It was a gray, rainy day. My eyes were burning, and my throat was dry.

15 minutes after we got home, Beatrice arrived. She didn’t offer condolences. She just walked into our bedroom and delivered the eviction notice.

I sat on the bed, my legs completely dead under me. I couldn’t draw a breath.

My chest turned cold.

Clara was crying, her small hands pulling at my sleeve.

I told Beatrice we had paid the full 120,000 dollars, but she just scoffed. She said without the final signed deed in our name, the Portage Avenue house was still hers, and Nick had left no will.

“Well, Nick never finished the transfer,” Beatrice said with a shrug.

I looked at the custom wooden jewelry box on the dresser. I wanted to scream, but my throat locked.

The silence in the room was deafening.

Beatrice gave us 2 hours. She stood in the hallway, checkbook in hand, watching as I threw Clara’s toys and our clothes into trash bags.