After my divorce, I thought happiness was behind me. Then I met Todd. He loved my daughter, Meredith, and slowly, I began to trust again.
But his mother had other plans.
At our housewarming party, Deborah arrived unannounced, suitcases in tow. “I’m moving in,” she announced. “And that child’s room is now mine.”
Then she delivered the final insult: “Your daughter from your first marriage isn’t welcome here.”
Meredith burst into tears. I was shaking with rage.
Then my mother stepped in.
Helen, who once chased off a raccoon with a shoe, smiled sweetly. “Deborah, did you contribute to this apartment?”
“No,” Deborah scoffed. “But Todd—”
“Actually,” Mom said, “Sarah owns it. Solely. Her name is on the deed.”
Silence. Todd looked stunned.
It was true. After my messy divorce, I’d been careful. The apartment was legally mine.
Deborah sputtered. “You can’t be serious!”
“Dead serious,” I said. “And since it’s my home, I decide who stays. And it’s not you.”
Deborah turned to Todd, desperate. “You’re really going to let this happen?”
For the first time, he stood up to her. “Mom, you crossed a line. Leave.”
Defeated, she stormed out.
Later, we learned she’d sold her house, assuming we’d take her in. Instead, she was stuck with a relative she hated.
That night, Todd held me close. “I should’ve protected you both sooner.”
I kissed him. “You protected us when it mattered.”
As Meredith slept soundly in her butterfly room, I realized: Deborah had tried to destroy our happiness. Instead, she’d lost her son—and we’d gained everything.
