My name is Margaret. I’m 54 years old, and I never imagined I would one day be afraid of my own son.
Daniel was 28, handsome, polite, and the kind of young man everyone trusted. He helped elderly neighbors carry groceries, volunteered at church, and never forgot his grandmother’s birthday.
My mother, Evelyn, was 76. She had lived alone since my father passed away.
When Daniel offered to stay with her temporarily, I was relieved.
But three weeks later, everything changed.
My mother stopped calling me.
Whenever I visited, Daniel insisted on staying in the room.
And whenever I asked if she was all right, she glanced nervously toward him before answering.
One afternoon, I found them sitting together on the living room sofa.
Daniel had his arm around her shoulders.