I’m a widow with a seven-year-old son, and life has been nothing short of a relentless uphill climb.
The bills never stop. The debt never shrinks. I work mornings at a diner, nights cleaning offices, and every penny I make is already spent before it even hits my account.
A month ago, I saw her.
My late husband’s mother.The same woman who cut all contact after his funeral — no calls, no visits, no birthday cards for her only grandson. And there she was, stepping gracefully out of a glossy black luxury car, wearing designer clothes that probably cost more than my rent.
I couldn’t stop myself.
“Where did the money come from?” I asked.She turned to me, her expression curdling. “None of your business,” she spat, and walked away without another word.
I let it go… for a while.
Then, a few days ago, while delivering supplies to one of the office suites I clean, I overheard a conversation. A man — a banker, judging by the folder in his hands — was telling a colleague about a recent large withdrawal from a trust fund. My stomach twisted when I heard the name attached to it.
It was my son’s.
The trust my husband had quietly set up before he died — the one I didn’t even know existed. And the person who’d been named as “temporary guardian” of the funds until my son turned eighteen?
Her.
Now I knew exactly where the money had come from… and I also knew I wasn’t going to let her get away with it.