Sixteen years ago, at 56, I was still renting when my son Mark bought a modest house. To him, it was a castle. He dreamed of a porch, a swing set, even a room for me.
Then came the accident. He was gone, leaving two-year-old Emma and a simple will naming her heir. At the funeral, Emma’s mother, Melissa, handed me the keys and disappeared with another man. From then on, it was me and Emma.
I cleaned houses, worked nights, paid the mortgage, and built a life in those walls. Emma grew into a kind, practical girl, never asking for much—until prom. Dresses were too expensive, so I sewed one from vintage satin, stitching every memory of Mark into its seams.
The night before prom, Melissa reappeared, glittering and false. She brought a designer gown and legal papers, urging Emma to sign the house over so she could sell it. But Emma stood tall: “This is my house. Mine and Grandma’s.” She tore the papers in half.
