After My Husband’s Funeral, My In-Laws Moved In and Told Me to Leave

His voice crackled with excitement over the phone.

“Julie, I’ve been thinking,” he said. “How would you feel about buying a townhouse? It would be easier for your dad to move around in a wheelchair. He could spend more time outside. Plus you could have a garden, something to keep you busy when I’m on the road.”

The more he talked, the more I liked the idea. I glanced at dad, who was pretending not to be eavesdropping.

“What do you think, Dad?” I asked, putting the phone on speaker.

“A garden would be nice,” dad’s eyes lit up and he admitted. “And it would be easier to get outside.”

That settled it. Over the next few weeks, we threw ourselves into house hunting.

We finally found the perfect place: a spacious townhouse with wide doorways, a roll-in shower for dad, and a beautiful backyard. Taking out a mortgage was scary, but with Paul’s income, mine, and the rent from dad’s old apartment, we managed to make it work.

We moved in on a sunny Sunday in spring. I’ll never forget the look on dad’s face as he wheeled himself out onto our new patio.

“This is perfect, sweetie,” he said, his eyes misty. “Thank you.”

We spent the next few months settling in and making the place our own. I planted a small vegetable garden and dad would sit outside for hours, enjoying the sunshine and fresh air.

It was peaceful, almost perfect. Then we decided to have a housewarming party.

We invited friends, colleagues, and yes, even Maria and Olivia. The party was in full swing when they showed up, fashionably late as usual.

They walked in, looking around with barely hidden envy. As we walked through the house, I could see Maria thinking about something.

When we reached the master bedroom, she turned to me with a sly smile.

“You know, Julie,” she said quietly. “This would be perfect for Paul and me. Why don’t you send your father to a nursing home? Then I could move in here.”

I felt like I’d been slapped.

“Excuse me,” I managed to say.

“Oh, don’t look so shocked,” Maria continued. “Your father isn’t well. He’s not a whole person anymore, is he? He doesn’t need all this luxury. A nursing home would be more than enough for someone in his condition.”

Before I could respond, Maria marched out to the patio where dad was talking with some guests. To my horror, she grabbed the handles of his wheelchair and started pushing him toward the driveway.

“Maria!” I shouted, running after her. “What are you doing?”

“If he won’t go to a nursing home, he can stay outside,” she sneered. “That’s what you wanted, isn’t it? For him to be outdoors?”

I was shaking with rage and disbelief. Thankfully, Paul heard the commotion and came running.

His face turned red with anger when he saw what his mother was doing.

“Mom!” he yelled. “What the hell are you doing? Let go of Larry’s chair right now!”

Maria looked shocked by Paul’s tone.

“But honey, I was just—”

“I don’t want to hear it,” Paul cut her off. “You and Olivia need to leave now.”

After they left, Paul apologized over and over to dad and me.

“I’m so sorry,” he said, his voice breaking. “I had no idea she would do that. I’m just so sorry.”

Dad reached out and patted Paul’s hand.

“It’s not your fault, son,” he said gently. “Some people just can’t understand.”

The Unthinkable Tragedy

Life settled into a new routine after that incident. Maria and Olivia kept their distance, which was fine with me.

Paul focused on his work, taking on more long-haul routes to help pay for our new home. I split my time between my job at the tax office, taking care of our home, and looking after dad.

Four years passed quickly. Our life became comfortable and predictable.

Paul was on the road most of the time, but when he was home, our little family was happy. Dad’s health was stable and he seemed content spending his days in the garden or working on his editing from home.

Then came the call that shattered my world. I was at work when my phone rang.

A man’s unfamiliar voice greeted me.

“Mrs. Walker, this is Officer Andrew from the Highway Patrol.”

My heart sank.

“Yes,” I barely managed to say.

“I’m sorry to inform you that your husband, Paul Walker, has been in a serious accident.”

The rest of the conversation was a blur. Words like “head-on collision” and “didn’t make it” floated around me, but I couldn’t understand them.

It wasn’t until I heard myself thanking the officer and hanging up that the reality began to hit me. Paul was gone.

The next week was a fog of grief and disbelief. I went through the motions of planning the funeral like a robot, barely understanding what was happening.

The day before the funeral, I gathered my courage and called Maria. I thought she deserved to hear about her son’s death from me, not from a newspaper obituary.

“Hello,” Maria’s sharp voice answered.

“Maria, it’s Julie,” I said, my voice trembling. “It’s about Paul. He’s gone. There was an accident.”

There was silence on the other end of the line, and then to my shock, Maria’s voice came back dripping with anger.

“This is your fault!” she hissed. “You made him work so hard driving that truck to pay for your fancy house! You killed my son!”

I was stunned.

“Maria, I—”

“Save it,” she snapped. “I expect you to give him the best funeral money can buy, but don’t expect a penny from us. You made your bed, now lie in it.”

The line went dead. I stood there, phone in hand, tears streaming down my face.

How could she be so cruel? How could she blame me for this?

The day of Paul’s funeral was gray and rainy, matching my mood perfectly. The church was full; Paul was well-liked in the community and it seemed like half the town had come to pay their respects.

After the service, as people passed by to offer their condolences, I noticed that Paul’s mother and sister were nowhere to be seen. They hadn’t even bothered to show up for their own son and brother’s funeral.

Dad reached out and squeezed my hand.

“It’s their loss, sweetie. We’re family and we’ll get through this together.”

The Vultures at the Door

As we pulled into our driveway, something seemed off. The lights were on in the house, which was strange because I was sure I had turned everything off before we left.

“Did you leave any lights on, Dad?” I asked, frowning.