That evening, we returned with a locksmith. Changed every lock. Upgraded security.

Her things? Packed with care. Left curbside.

She arrived screaming, “This is my son’s house!”

“No,” I said calmly. “It’s the one he left to us.”

She called the police. They came. Heard both sides. Then said gently:

“Ma’am, you committed an unlawful eviction. You need to leave.”

She snarled one last time: “You turned him against me. You and your brats.”

I looked her straight in the eye.

“No. You pushed him away. And now? You lost everything.”

“What are you talking about?” she snapped.

“The will,” I said. “Jason planned for this.”

She fell silent as the officers led her away.

That night, Ava curled up in Jason’s old spot, her bee plush tucked under her chin.

“Is Grandma going to jail?” she asked sleepily.

“I don’t know, honey,” I said. “But she’s not going to hurt us again.”

Later, I found an old photo—us on the beach, wind in our hair, his arms around all three of us. I clutched it to my chest and whispered,

“You knew. You knew this could happen.”

And somehow, I could feel him say,

“That’s why I made sure you’d be okay.”

Eleanor didn’t just lose a check—she lost the last thread tying her to a son who chose love, not bloodline.

Jason didn’t leave us behind. He left us shielded—with love, foresight, and strength.

Justice didn’t roar. It arrived in paperwork, courtroom echoes, and the soft sound of children sleeping safely once again.

And in the end, love outlasted bitterness.

Jason made sure of that.