Every night, before she sleeps, Stephania Carabott kisses her left wrist where the name of her husband, Noel, is tattooed and pleads with him to watch over her.

The young widow, who turned 29 last month, is still grappling with the loss of her 33-year-old husband, one of the four victims of the Simshar fishing boat tragedy last July.

"I got his name tattooed after he died. I feel his presence protecting me when I'm scared and all alone. He was my best friend and we had a bond nobody could shatter," she said, taking a deep drag on her third Royals cigarette.

Mrs Carabott is living on a diet of cigarettes, coffee and a concoction of pills to treat the depression she has plunged into, depths she cannot see herself scaling from now that she is completely broke and is being evicted from the house she shared with her husband in Marsaxlokk for 10 years.

The property was leased by her father-in-law, Joseph Carabott, and his sister Dolores. A judge has given Mrs Carabott four months to leave.

The property is owned by the Joint Office, which is now examining whether there has been a breach of contract by the in-laws for allowing others to live in it.

Mrs Carabott's lawyer, Kris Busietta is mulling the possibility of filing an appeal. He has made it clear that, if he does decide to lodge an appeal, it would be on a point of law and not to buy his client time, as was previously reported.

Mrs Carabott was not surprised when, three weeks after her husband's funeral, she received the first eviction letter: "Noel's family never liked me. It could be because of our political differences but I have no idea. Relations between Noel and his family were also strained because of his drug habit, even though he had come clean."

"I was not taken aback when his family called me an outsider. What hurt the most was when his father told me that now that Noel is dead my marriage is over... My marriage to Noel is for life," she said, adding she had never removed the wedding band from her finger.

The in-laws live a stone's throw away from her house but it felt she was living next to strangers: "When we bump into each other on the street I lift my head up to nod but they look at the ground; it's as if a pig had crossed their path."

To make matters worse, when her husband died, people he owed money to came knocking on her door demanding repayment. Suddenly she was set back by over €5,000. She also has a bank loan to repay and every month all that remains from her widow's pension is €50.

"I sob my heart out each time I receive the cheque. Who would have thought I'd be a widow at 29," she said, adding that she hoped a television station, which had raised €2,000 for her, would proffer the money very soon.

She explained that, having had no children, her late husband was her soul mate and even when the going got tough and everybody urged her to leave him because of his addiction she disregarded such comments and told people nothing would separate them except death.

"I still expect him to show up and refuse to give his clothes away," she said, as she deftly wiped her tears that had not stopped rolling down.

Mrs Carabott feels she has nothing to live for. Her eyes bear the depths of sorrow and her face, which she has mutilated with deep scratches because of her nervous tension, is contorted in pain.

All she can think of is her late husband and whenever she wants to share some news with him she writes him text messages, saving the SMSs on her mobile phone instead of sending them.

She spends hours at his grave every Wednesday and Saturday, cleaning the marble headstone, adding fresh flowers and occasionally placing her phone on the grave to play his favourite song Marigold, by Winter Moods.

"Life is too cruel but I find peace at the cemetery."

amassa@timesofmalta.com