When my son Daniel died in a car crash three months ago, I was shattered. He was only 34 and left behind his wife, Amanda, and their two boys, Ethan and Caleb. They’d been living in my house for the past seven years—rent-free, bill-free, just… there. It all started when Amanda got pregnant, and the young couple couldn’t afford their one-bedroom apartment. I welcomed them in, thinking it would be temporary. But time passed, Amanda stopped working entirely, and even as Daniel’s income grew, they stayed. No rent, no help around the house, not even a thank-you. What was meant to be a short-term solution turned into a long-term burden.

After Daniel’s death, Amanda collapsed into a haze of grief—but not the kind that takes care of her children or helps clean a kitchen. I took care of Ethan, got him to school, fed Caleb, and kept things moving, all while Amanda slept in and cried behind closed doors. I gave her time, but eventually I couldn’t ignore the feeling that she was freeloading off my grief. Add to that the suspicions I’d harbored for years—her sketchy background, late-night walks, secretive phone habits. I never felt she was Daniel’s equal, and to be honest, I was never fully convinced both boys were his. Caleb didn’t look like my son at all, and a mother’s gut doesn’t lie.

One morning, I looked at Caleb sitting at the table with that dimple that didn’t come from any of us, and I snapped. I told Amanda it was time to go. My house isn’t a shelter, and I wasn’t going to keep sacrificing my peace for someone who never respected my home. She looked stunned, left with both boys, and later I found a note—some emotional plea about being “all she had left.” I didn’t buy it. I’d done my part, more than enough. I even asked if I could keep Caleb—because I loved him, even if he wasn’t Daniel’s. He clung to me, called me “Nana.” But Amanda screamed, called me a monster, and stormed out with both kids.

Now my house is quiet for the first time in years. I light a candle for Daniel each night and finally feel like I’m honoring him without the chaos that clouded his last years. People say, “But they’re your grandkids!” But are they really? When one might not even be Daniel’s, and their mother disrespected everything I stood for, what do I owe them? I know people will judge me—but I did what I had to do. I gave them a home for seven years. My son is gone, and so is my obligation.