When I married Ryan, I knew his mother, Margaret, despised me. She never hid it. To her, I was a gold-digger, unworthy of her son. Worst of all? She refused to acknowledge my kids — my 5-year-old daughter and 7-year-old son — as her grandchildren. Ryan, though, loved us fiercely. He bought us a beautiful home, ensured my children felt safe and cherished, and promised me that his mother would never interfere in our lives. And for a while, she didn't. Then tragedy struck. Ryan died in a car accide