After My Husband Died, My MIL Donated All My Furniture While I Was in the Hospital – Karma Didn’t Just Knock, It Kicked the Door Down

The quilt she’d made me? God, it was gone, too. Even the little things.

Calder’s favorite mug with the chip on the handle. The throw pillows we’d argued about. The wooden box where I kept his wedding ring, the one I’d open at night just to hold something he’d worn.

I sat on the floor where our bed used to be and couldn’t cry or scream. I couldn’t feel anything except that vast, terrible emptiness. Then I heard footsteps.

Marjorie appeared in the doorway, arms crossed, looking proud of herself. “You were holding on to the past,” she said calmly, like she was explaining something obvious to a child. “This is healthier.”

“How could you be so cruel?”

Marjorie didn’t even blink.

“You needed a clean slate. All that clutter was just weighing you down.”

I stared at her. “And the urn?”

She tilted her head, almost proudly.

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