My name is Margaret, and I’m 64 years old. When I married 31-year-old Daniel, my relatives were convinced I had lost my mind.
Daniel was a successful businessman. He owned his own company, a luxurious mansion, and enough money that he could comfortably live without working for the rest of his life.
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I wasn’t wealthy. I had worked as a schoolteacher and was living on a modest pension.
So whenever people asked why such a young, wealthy man would marry a woman my age, I simply smiled.
Because I believed he truly loved me.
At first, our marriage felt like a fairy tale.
Daniel brought me flowers, prepared breakfast, and never allowed me to carry anything heavy.
But six months later, I noticed a strange habit.