I refused to give my son the farm money. He struck me and ordered me out while my daughter-in-law applauded. I retreated silently. Ten minutes later, the doorbell rang—and he collapsed, begging forgiveness.

My name is Margaret Lewis. I’m sixty-eight years old, and for forty years I worked the same farm in Iowa alongside my late husband, Robert.
Three months ago, I sold that farm. My knees could no longer endure the labor, and I naïvely believed the sale would secure me a peaceful old age. The money was meant to cover my medical care and the small house where I was living with my son Daniel and his wife, Emily—“just for a while,” they had said.

That afternoon, Daniel walked into the kitchen holding the sale documents, wearing an impatient smile. Without hesitation, he demanded that I transfer all the money to him. He said he wanted to invest it in a business venture with friends—“now or never.” I calmly told him I couldn’t do that. That money was my safety net. I had worked my entire life for it. Emily leaned against the counter, watching me with a mocking smirk.

Daniel pushed harder. His voice rose. He called me selfish. I reminded him that I had paid for his college education, his first truck, even his wedding. Then the unthinkable happened. He slapped me so hard my ears rang.
“Get this old woman out of here!” he shouted, pointing toward the door.
Emily clapped and laughed, as if it were entertainment.

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