When my husband died after a long illness, silence settled into our home like dust on empty shelves.
The medical equipment was gone. The 3 a.m. prayers had ended. But the mortgage remained. So did the utilities. And the grief—so heavy it felt like another bill I couldn’t pay.
My adult stepson, who had lived in the basement apartment rent-free for years “to help with Dad,” stayed on after the funeral. At first, I didn’t have the energy to ask him to leave—or even to talk about money.
But as months passed and my savings dwindled, I made a difficult decision: I asked him to start paying rent.
What happened next wasn’t what I expected. And what I discovered—quietly, painfully—broke my heart in a whole new way.
🏠 The Reality Many Widows Face
