My name is Margaret Hill. Until last winter, I believed I had raised my son, Daniel, to be a decent man. He was thirty-two, worked as a financial analyst, and liked to tell people he was “self-made.” But one evening changed everything.
It started with a small disagreement over dinner. I had made a recipe I’d cooked for years, but Daniel found it bland. The argument escalated in ways I hadn’t anticipated, and I realized that his behavior had crossed a line. For the first time, fear replaced comfort in my own home.
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