When my husband Jake died, my world collapsed. Grief engulfed me — but beneath that sorrow was fear: the modest money he left behind was all we had. No safety net. No cushion. Just me, suddenly alone, responsible for protecting our children and preserving the future we’d dreamed of.
Then the calls started. Family who had barely known us before were suddenly “in need,” guilt-tripping me. They acted entitled to what Jake left behind. It felt like vultures circling before I’d even had time to mourn.
Their words turned cruel. My daughter came home in tears, saying Auntie called her “selfish,” claiming her father was “mad.” Lies, manipulation, pressure — from people I’d once trusted.
So I reached out to a lawyer. I saved every message, studied Jake’s will — every signature and note. It was draining. But I refuse to let anyone take what belongs to my children and me.