“They left me alone on Thanksgiving, then sent me a bill for $31,000… they forgot that the land under their garage was still mine.”

My name is Margaret Collins, I’m seventy-four years old, and for decades I believed that quiet sacrifice was the foundation of family love. That Thursday in November, while the rest of the country celebrated Thanksgiving surrounded by laughter and hot meals, I sat alone at a small table with a piece of already cold turkey and a television playing silently.

There was no invitation.
Not a phone call.

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