I always thought heartbreak would be the hardest thing I’d ever face until I was forced to sleep on a moldy yoga mat in a freezing barn while my daughter-in-law threw parties in the house my husband and I built from scratch.I’m 75 years old, and I’ve learned that the worst kind of evil doesn’t come with horns or fangs. It walks into your life wearing lipstick, carrying expensive handbags, and crying crocodile tears.
My name is Dahlia. I’ve lived in the same farmhouse just outside of Lancaster, Ohio, since I was 24. My late husband, George, and I built this place from the ground up. It wasn’t fancy, but it was sturdy, just like the two of us.I still remember those early days. George would be out there shirtless in the July heat, mixing cement by hand. I wore his old flannel shirts, hammering nails until my fingers ached.
