I thought we were free. For months, I woke up in our new home, soaking in the silence, the privacy, the simple joy of knowing that we had finally escaped my mother-in-law, Inga. No more unannounced visits. No more backhanded comments. No more suffocating control over our lives. But just as I started to believe it was truly over, a sharp knock at the door shattered my illusion. I hesitated before opening it, my stomach twisting into knots. When I finally turned the handle, I was met with a man

Wesley sat at the dinner table, staring at the plate in front of him with a frown. He wrinkled his nose. “Meatloaf again?” he groaned. “Can’t we have something else for a change?” His mother, Martha, raised an eyebrow, clearly unimpressed. “We had roast chicken yesterday, hamburgers the day before, and fish on Friday,” she said, folding her arms. “You get plenty of variety.” Wesley rolled his eyes. “Yeah, yeah… whatever.” He pushed the plate away and stood up. “Wesley,” his mom called. “Rinse your plate and put it in

The rain poured down heavily, drumming against the rooftops as I pulled my coat tighter around me and hurried toward the notary’s office. My father was gone. That thought echoed in my mind, an ache settling deep in my chest. He had always been my rock, my protector, the man who held everything together. But in the last few years, that rock had crumbled beneath the weight of debts I didn’t fully understand. And now, even the house we had lived in together was slipping away, soon to be repossessed.