Little did I know, the night was about to get even longer.
Family driving at night. For illustration purposes only | Source: Freepik
When we reached Lucia’s house, it was nearly midnight. The night was quiet, and the air had a chill that seemed to echo the cold dread in my heart. My husband knocked on the door while I stayed back with our sons.
Lucia opened the door, her expression changing from confusion to concern as she took in our disheveled appearances. “What happened?” she asked, stepping aside to let us in.
A man knocks on a door. For illustration purposes only | Source: Pexels
“There was a fire, Mom,” my husband explained, his voice cracking with emotion. “The house—it’s all gone.”
“Oh, my goodness,” Lucia gasped, covering her mouth. For a moment, I saw a glimmer of the mother-in-law I had always hoped for. Then, as we started to enter, she paused and her expression hardened as her eyes met mine.
Mother-in-law is angry and says no. For illustration purposes only | Source: Freepik
“You can come in,” she told my husband and the boys, then her gaze shifted coldly back to me. “But Chloe, you need to find somewhere else.”
My husband’s face turned red with anger. “What are you talking about, Mom? It’s the middle of the night and our house just burned down! Chloe is staying here; she’s my wife and their mother!”
An angry man. For illustration purposes only | Source: Freepik
Lucia shook her head firmly. “No, I’ve made my decision. She’s not staying.”
Stunned, I felt tears sting my eyes. My husband argued more, his voice filled with disbelief and anger, but Lucia wouldn’t budge. The boys, sleepy and confused, started to whimper, sensing the tension.
“We’ll figure something else out,” I finally said, my voice barely a whisper. We left Lucia’s doorstep and spent the night in our car which we parked in a nearby rest area. The next morning, we checked into a motel, our hearts heavy and spirits crushed.
View of a motel. For illustration purposes only | Source: Pexels
The days that followed were a blur of trying to salvage what we could from the remains of our home and dealing with insurance. Meanwhile, Lucia’s offers to let us stay—minus me—continued, each one more insulting than the last. She even suggested I could sleep in her garage. We refused each time.
Then, karma intervened. Five months later, a phone call came late in the evening. It was Lucia, and her voice was trembling. “Chloe, I need help,” she said, a quiver of desperation in her tone. “There’s been a fire. My house—it’s gone.”
A house burning down. For illustration purposes only | Source: Freepik
My heart skipped a beat. Despite everything, I felt a pang of sympathy. “Are you okay, Lucia?”
“Yes, I’m fine. But everything else is lost.” Her voice broke.
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