At 74, I truly believed the hardest chapters of my life were behind me.
I had raised my children, said goodbye to my husband, and learned how to live with the quiet that settles in after loss.
My world had grown small, centered around a modest two-bedroom apartment on the second floor of an old brick building shaded by tall maple trees.
It wasn’t fancy, but it was home—or so I believed at the time.
Every morning followed the same comforting routine.
I filled the kettle, scattered birdseed along the balcony railing for the sparrows, and hummed a familiar tune while my tea steeped.
Those simple moments gave my days structure and purpose.
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