I buried my son three months ago.
He was only 32 years old.
Every day since, I’ve been learning how to breathe again without him.
The grief was unbearable — but I still had one thing left that kept me going.
My grandson.
Then one afternoon, my daughter-in-law came to my house.
She didn’t come alone.
She brought a suitcase.
And a new man.
She told me she was relocating and taking my grandson with her.
As if that wasn’t enough, she calmly demanded my son’s $90,000 inheritance.
I couldn’t believe what I was hearing.
My son had worked hard for that money.
He had trusted me to protect it.
I told her plainly that she didn’t deserve a dime.
She smiled.
Then she said something that froze me where I stood.
She told me that whether I liked it or not, she would always be my grandson’s mother — and I would just be “the past.”
That night, I didn’t sleep.
I thought about my son.
About what he would have wanted for his child.
And the next morning, I made a decision that wasn’t about anger…
It was about protecting the last piece of my son still left in this world.
Sometimes, standing your ground isn’t cruelty.
It’s love.
