I felt my knees give out, even though I was already sitting down.
The house we’d renovated together, room by room, over two decades. The savings account we’d painstakingly built, putting away money every month for the kids’ college funds. Even the car parked in the driveway that was technically in his name alone. All of it… gone.
The following weeks were absolute hell. My grief wasn’t just emotional anymore. It became a physical weight pressing down on my chest every moment of every day.
My health, already fragile after years of stress and sleepless nights managing our household while Michael worked long hours, started to decline rapidly. I lost 15 pounds in three weeks. My hands shook constantly. Some mornings, I could barely get out of bed.
The children were falling apart, too. Mia and Ben were supposed to be applying to colleges, excited about their futures. Now they talked about community college, about staying home to help me, and about giving up their dreams. The guilt of that ate at me worse than anything else.
Every day, I woke up exhausted, forcing myself to function. To go to my part-time job at the library. To cook dinner even though I couldn’t taste it. To clean a house that wouldn’t be ours much longer. To console my children when I had no consolation to give. To answer questions that I didn’t know how to answer.
How could Michael have done this to us? Had he forgotten to file the paperwork? Had he not cared enough to make it legal?
Then, exactly one week before we were supposed to leave the house, there was a knock at the door.
I opened it to find a woman in her 40s, holding a leather folder. Her badge identified her as a county clerk.
“Ms. Patricia?” she said gently. “I’m Sarah from the county clerk’s office. We’ve reviewed Michael’s records after his death, and I think you should see this. May I come in?”
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