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

Instead of revenge, I chose purpose. I turned Helen’s cottage into a sanctuary. Holly’s Haven, we named it. A space for those forgotten in their final years—widows, elders, the grieving.

Six months later, I stood beneath the old oak tree behind the house, pressing my palm to its bark. “You were never forgotten,” I whispered. “And now, neither am I.”

Helen hadn’t just left me a will.

She gave me a voice.

She gave me the right to decide what grows from pain.

She gave me roots.