At five in the morning, my cabin security alarm shattered the silence and my phone started buzzing — the young guard at the gate whispered, “Ma’am, your daughter-in-law just arrived with a moving truck and three men. She’s saying she owns the place now. I didn’t run to the door. I didn’t beg or argue. I stared at the Colorado mountains outside my window and simply told him, “Let her in.”

Lucky.

Not proud. Not grateful. Lucky. As if I’d stumbled into ownership rather than worked three decades to earn it.

I let it pass.

“Come in,” I said, stepping aside. “Dinner’s almost ready.”

The three of us moved inside and I watched as Melissa’s gaze swept across the living room. She took it all in with the focus of someone cataloging details. The stone fireplace, the bookshelves lined with novels and field guides, the wooden furniture I’d refinished myself, the framed photos of Daniel as a child climbing trees and holding up fish he’d caught on summer trips.

“This is just charming,” she said, her voice lilting with admiration. “It feels so cozy, like something out of a magazine.”

She walked to the mantle and ran her fingers along the edge, pausing at a photo of Daniel and me taken years ago at the peak of a mountain trail. We were both sunburned and grinning, arms slung over each other’s shoulders.

“You two look so happy here,” she said softly.

“We were,” I replied, watching her closely.

She turned and smiled at me again, that same practiced warmth.

“Daniel told me this property has been in your family for a while,” she said. “It must be worth quite a bit now with how the market’s been.”

I felt Daniel stiffen slightly beside her, but he said nothing.

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