My Daughter Went Crazy When I Refused To Give Her The Money From Selling My Farm. My Older Son Took Her Side And Broke My Rib. Twenty Minutes Later, Both Of Them Regretted EVER BEING BORN.
My Son Broke My Ribs When I Refused To Give Him The Money From Selling My Farm. But Then…
When my son and daughter demanded the $180,000 from selling my late husband’s farm, I refused. I’d earned that peace after a lifetime of struggle.
My son lost control—he pushed me so hard I fell, fracturing two ribs before the police restrained him. They thought I was selfish, hoarding money I’d never use. What they didn’t know was that I’d sold the farm to fund a foundation in my sister’s memory, to help low-income women fighting cancer.
While my ribs healed, my children faced justice—jail, probation, and the painful truth of their greed. A year later, my foundation has helped dozens of people, and though my family is fractured, I’ve finally found peace. Saying “no” didn’t make me cruel.
It made me free. I never imagined I would see my own daughter so furious, screaming at me like she didn’t know me, because I refused to give her the money I earned from selling my property. And even less did I think my oldest son would defend her with such force that he would end up breaking one of my ribs with a single shove.
But what neither of them knew was that, in exactly 20 minutes, they would bitterly regret what they’d done when they discovered the truth I had been silently keeping. My name is Martha. I am 64 years old.
And all my life I have been a simple, hardworking woman, one of those who wakes up every day at 5:30 in the morning to prepare coffee and think about everything she has to do. I live in a modest little house on the outskirts of a small town, with a small garden where I grow tomatoes and cilantro, and where every morning I greet my chickens before giving them their food. My routine has been the same for years: black coffee without sugar, buttered toast, and then I sit on the porch to watch the sunrise while I plan my day.
I have been a widow for eight years. My husband Edward died of a sudden heart attack, leaving me alone with a property we had inherited from his parents, but which was in very poor condition. It was a large property with nearly 20 acres, but it needed a lot of work and money to be productive again.
The story doesn’t end here –
it continues on the next page.
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