After giving birth to our son Timothy, my mother-in-law, Mrs. Norris, threw us out of her house, accusing me of lying about his paternity. My husband Jonathan, her mama’s boy, stood frozen. Heartbroken and abandoned, I returned to my parents’ home and raised Timothy alone.

Years later, I rebuilt my life. I married Edward, a kind widower with a daughter, and our blended family brought healing. Then one day, I saw an old woman digging through a trash can—it was Mrs. Norris, frail and hungry.

I took her to eat. Between tears, she told me Jonathan had died in a tragic attack. Grief and guilt destroyed her. She admitted she’d driven us away and begged for forgiveness.

I’d once dreamed of her downfall. But now, all I saw was a broken mother.

“I’ve moved on,” I told her. “I’m happy now.”

Instead of turning away, I chose compassion. I brought her meals and helped her rebuild, slowly. Edward supported me, even inviting her to visit our home.

Because sometimes the greatest revenge isn’t cruelty—it’s peace. And choosing kindness over resentment gave me the closure I never thought possible.