I handed them Jason’s final letter—his last words to the parents who disowned him. Susan trembled as she read it aloud. In it, Jason forgave them… but never forgot. “I wish things had been different,” he wrote. “But I’ve made peace with what is.” His words cut deeper than any legal document could.
Their expressions turned from hope to shame. “This isn’t what we expected,” Susan whispered. I didn’t hold back. “You didn’t want him when he needed you. Now you want what he left behind? All he gave you was forgiveness. That’s more than you deserve.”
They tried to argue, but I stopped them. “You want this house? Then answer me: why did you cut him out of your lives?” The silence that followed was deafening. Charles looked lost. Susan mumbled excuses. “He wouldn’t live how we wanted.” Hollow words. No real remorse.
In the end, they had nothing left to say. Their lawyer stepped in, urging them to leave. And they did—quietly, defeated. As I locked the door behind them, I felt both grief and peace. This house wasn’t just mine. It was Jason’s legacy. And I had just protected it.