My Husband Skipped His Mother’s Deathbed. Her Last Will Made Him Regret It Forever (2 of 4)

Inside: a key, a random address, and ten words that iced my blood.

They never loved me. Now they’ll learn what it means to be forgotten.

I left the hospital in a haze, her note burning a hole in my purse, my calls to her children unanswered, unread. I told the nurse they were coming. But they never did.

I drove straight to the address. A forgotten cottage surrounded by wild vines, tucked thirty miles from the nearest chain store. The key worked on the first try. Inside, everything was coated in dust—photos, books, tiny figurines—but the space had a soul. This was Helen’s real home.

On the kitchen table sat another envelope, this one addressed to a lawyer. I called immediately.

“I’ve been expecting you,” said the voice on the other end. “Helen left very clear instructions. You’re to bring her children to the reading of the will. Tomorrow morning.”

I said nothing at first. Then, finally, “They won’t like that.”

The lawyer chuckled, gently. “She said you’d say that, too.”

The next morning, Travis—my husband—and his sister Stella arrived at the reading late, reeking of skepticism and entitlement. The lawyer opened the folder and began.

“To Travis, I leave my forgiveness, though you never asked for it.”

He shifted uncomfortably.