I never thought I’d live to see the day when my own daughter-in-law would treat me like a stranger—or worse, like an intruder in the very house I had called home for nearly forty years.
Life has a way of humbling you when you least expect it, and for me, that lesson came in the shape of boxes tossed across the lawn, family photos trampled into the grass, and a voice full of entitlement telling me to “clear out” before she called the police.
My name is Margaret, and I’m sixty-eight years old. For most of my adult life, I shared my home with my late husband, Richard.
