When I married Ryan two years ago, I knew his mother, Margaret, despised me. Her disdain extended to my children,

Emma and Liam, from my previous marriage. Despite Ryan’s reassurances, Margaret never warmed up to us. During one Sunday dinner,

I overheard her calling me a gold-digger. When I told Ryan, he vowed to address it. We moved to a peaceful neighborhood, far from Margaret,

and Ryan embraced my children as his own. Then came the phone call. “Your husband has been in an accident. It’s serious.”

The doctor’s grim expression told me everything. At the funeral, Margaret blamed me. “If he hadn’t been rushing home to you, he’d still be alive.”

Days later, we returned from an outing to find our belongings on the curb. Margaret had changed the locks. “This house belongs to me now,” she sneered.

“You have no claim.” That night, we slept in the car. The next morning, I called Ryan’s lawyer. Relief washed over me as he confirmed Ryan had left a will.

Everything — the house, savings, investments — was mine. Margaret had been left $200,000 on one condition: if she tried to evict us, she forfeited it all.

In court, the judge ruled in my favor. By the time we returned, Margaret’s belongings were on the curb. She protested, but I stood firm.

“You turned my son against me!” she spat. “No, Margaret. You did that.” That night, I tucked Emma into bed. “Is Grandma Margaret going to jail?”

she asked. I stroked her hair. “I don’t know, sweetie. But she can’t hurt us anymore.” For the first time, I felt safe. I felt at home