I wasn’t looking for love. Honestly, after a difficult breakup several years earlier, I had stopped believing that the kind of love people wrote about in books was meant for me.
Then I met Eleanor.
She was seventy years old, a hospice patient with silver hair, gentle blue eyes, and a smile that seemed strangely bright despite everything she was going through.
I first met her when I was fixing a loose window latch in her room.
« You’re the only person here who knocks before entering, » she said.
I laughed. « That’s because I was raised properly. »
« Then your mother did a good job. »
That was Eleanor. She could turn an ordinary conversation into something memorable.
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