My husband was the youngest of three siblings. Both of his older siblings live out of state, far from where we settled with his parents here in the U.S.

To stay close to his aging parents, he built a beautiful three-bedroom home on their property (on the remaining half-acre next to their family house). When we first met, he told me he wanted to live near his parents, not because they couldn’t care for themselves, but because he wanted to be close as they grew older.

I didn’t mind at all — his parents were easy to get along with, and they were always kind to me. So, after we got married and the house was completed, we moved in.

Over the years, we’ve raised our children in that home. Our youngest is eight now.

From my perspective, everything was fine. My in-laws weren’t exactly my friends, but we had a good relationship; they loved their grandchildren and helped us a lot with them.

But two months ago, everything changed. My husband went to sleep one night and never woke up. Cardiac arrest.

As soon as our neighbor, who shares the same cultural background as my husband and his family, heard the news, he brought me to his home. He asked me about the papers for my husband’s Mercedes-Benz. Was it fully owned, or was it still under loan from his employer?

Thankfully, my husband had paid off the loan, so I had the title in hand. The neighbor, who seemed to know what was coming, asked me to also give him my own car title and documents.

Then he made arrangements with a friend to move my husband’s car and park it at his workplace. He advised me to tell my husband’s family that the car was on loan from the bank and had been repossessed until the debt was settled or the next of kin assumed the responsibility. As for my own car, he told me to say it was also on loan.

Looking back, I realize he knew what hell was about to break loose.

As I sit here now, the only things left from my 12 years with my husband are a small plot of land we bought with plans to build, my two children, and the car my neighbor helped me protect. I didn’t fully know the family I married into until the day my husband passed.

And now, as I grieve, I’m not sure if my tears are for my husband or the family that hurt and betrayed me so deeply. But one thing I know: despite the pain, I will rise.