I loved Elias more than life itself—he was 52 when we met, I was 39, and a year later we married under what felt like ideal circumstances, until his stage 4 pancreatic cancer diagnosis.
For two painful years I was his devoted caregiver, bathing him and soothing his agony, while his children, Jordan and Maya, rarely visited, claiming they “couldn’t bear” to see him suffer.
After his funeral, they coldly evicted me from the home Elias and I shared, declaring they’d sell it, leaving me with nothing—until a mysterious text led me to storage locker 112.
Inside, I found Elias’s letters, heirloom jewelry, deeds to three vacation homes, and a magnificent diamond ring—his way of protecting my future. I’ve since moved into the Colorado mountain retreat he left me and, at last, found peace.