I was furious. How could they just come in and take what was rightfully mine? I offered to sell the house to them for the price Jason had paid and the mortgage payments I had made, but they refused, insisting that the house belonged to them. It was a surreal moment, watching them try to take something that had never been theirs to begin with.
Then, I remembered the envelope. The one Jason had left for them. I walked over to the sideboard in the living room, opened the drawer, and pulled out the worn and creased envelope. I held it up, the weight of it almost crushing in its simplicity. This was their inheritance. Not the house, but a final letter from Jason.
As they read the letter, their expressions changed from anticipation to anger. Jason’s words weren’t what they had expected. He had forgiven them for the pain they caused and had made peace with what had happened. It was a powerful moment, watching their faces fall as they realized that they had lost the one thing they had come for.
In the end, I stood my ground and refused to give them the house. I asked them one final question, one that they had never been able to answer before: Why did they cut ties with their own son? Why did they ignore his attempts to reconcile? And if they could give me an honest answer, I would consider their request. But they couldn’t. And in that moment, I knew they had no right to anything that Jason had left behind.
As they left, defeated and without a word, I felt a mix of emotions. Sadness for Jason and everything he had gone through, but also relief and a sense of pride for standing up for him. The house was still mine, but it was more than that. It was ours, and I would carry Jason’s memory with me, within these walls and in my heart, for as long as I lived.