When Jason came into my life at 17, broken and thrown out by his parents, my family took him in without question. From that day forward, we were inseparable—surviving school, college, and life as partners. He was brilliant with computers; I was drawn to people. Together, we built a life, including the home he bought, which I helped maintain when cancer came into our lives.
Jason’s illness changed everything, but not our bond. Even as he got sicker, he still hoped his estranged parents would reach out. They never did. He added me to the house title, just in case. It was our sanctuary. But a month after his funeral, they finally came—on my doorstep, with demands and a lawyer.
“Jason was our son. This house should be ours,” his father said coldly. I was stunned. They abandoned him, and now they wanted the one thing he left behind? Legally, maybe they had a chance. Emotionally, they had nothing. But I didn’t slam the door. I made them an offer.
“If you want the house,” I said, “you’ll have to do something Jason waited his whole life for—answer one question truthfully.” Their faces froze. Their entitlement flickered. Because what I had in my hands wasn’t a deed—it was something far more powerful.