“This house is mine, Jessica. You and Matthew have forty-eight hours to leave.”
My name is Margaret Adler. I am seventy-two, and I bought that small two-bedroom house after decades of cleaning other people’s homes, sewing clothes late at night, and saving every dollar I could.
The house was modest, with a narrow hallway, a little garden, and maple trees lining the street. But when I held the keys for the first time, I cried because it was finally mine.
My husband George had died years earlier. Matthew, our only son, was already grown and married. I never expected him to organize his entire life around me. I only hoped for occasional visits, a phone call, and basic respect.
Instead, he rarely came.
My neighbor Carol often told me I made too many excuses for him.
Then my sister Helen became ill and needed help. I told Matthew I would be gone for two weeks.
“Don’t worry,” he said. “The house will be fine.”
I trusted him.
