He pulled me close. “You and the kids are my family. End of story.”
True to his word, Jason bought us a beautiful home in a good neighborhood, far from Eleanor. Ava and Noah thrived under his love. He never tried to replace their father, who left when Noah was still in diapers. He just… showed up for them. Always.
“Mr. Bumblebee sleeps on the left,” Ava insisted during bedtime.
Jason nodded with a straight face. “Left side guard duty. Very important.”
Later, curled up on the couch, he said, “I talked to my mom. Told her she either accepts my family or she doesn’t see me at all.”
I hugged him tighter. “Thank you.”
“I didn’t have to,” he said. “I chose to.”
For a while, Eleanor kept her distance. She sent awkward birthday gifts and tolerated holidays with us. Barely.
Then everything fell apart.
I was making dinner when the phone rang.
“Is this Mrs. Mira Dawson?” a man asked.
“Yes?”
“I’m calling from Mercy General. Your husband’s been in a serious car accident. You should come immediately.”
I barely remember the drive. Just the doctor’s face when I arrived.
“I’m sorry. We did everything we could.”
Jason was gone. Just like that.
At the funeral, Eleanor sat across from me and the kids, her expression dry and steely. Afterward, she approached us.
“This is your fault,” she said coldly. “If he hadn’t been rushing home to you and your children, he’d still be alive.”
I stood frozen. “What?”
“You trapped him.”
“We were his family!” I snapped. “He loved us.”
“He was fooled.”
She walked off, leaving me stunned and hurting all over again.
Later, Noah asked me, “Was it our fault Dad d.i.ed?”
I cupped his face. “No, sweetheart. Never. That was just Grandma being very sad and saying something awful.”
But Eleanor wasn’t finished.
Two days later, we went out for ice cream. When we returned, everything we owned was dumped on the curb in trash bags. Ava’s favorite pink blanket flapped in the wind.
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