My name is Margaret Collins, and I am sixty-eight years old. For forty years, I worked the soil of a small dairy farm in upstate New York with my late husband, Robert. That land paid our bills, raised our children, and shaped my back into a permanent curve. When Robert passed away, the farm became my only real security, both financial and emotional. I never imagined it would also become the reason my family turned against me. My son, Daniel, came to visit one Sunday afternoon with his wife, Laura.…
Read MoreI refused to give my son the money from selling the farm. He slapped me and screamed, “Get this old woman out of here!” My daughter-in-law clapped
