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.
