Jason and I had a bond that went deeper than love — it was built on survival. He was just 17 when his parents kicked him out without warning or reason. He came to my door with a backpack, broken and crying. My mom welcomed him like a son, and from that day on, we were family.
We grew up together, leaned on each other through college, and eventually made a life in the house Jason bought. He was brilliant with computers; I worked in HR. We were opposites in the best way — until everything changed.
Four years ago, Jason was diagnosed with bone cancer. We fought it together. I picked up extra hours, handled the mortgage, and never left his side. But one thing hurt him more than the disease — his parents never came back. Not one call, not one visit.
After his funeral, they appeared on my doorstep. I expected awkward condolences. Instead, they brought a lawyer.“This house should come back to us,” his father said. “We’re his next of kin.”I could barely breathe.