At sixty-two, I thought my life had finally slowed down. I imagined peaceful mornings with coffee on the porch, tending to my garden, maybe a quiet afternoon at book club. But life had other plans. Now my mornings begin with spilled cereal, missing shoes, and two energetic five-year-olds—my grandsons, Jack and Liam—arguing over who gets the blue spoon.
After my daughter Emily’s tragic car accident last year, my world shifted overnight. Raising them alone has been both the hardest and most meaningful thing I’ve ever done. Every day brings chaos, laughter, exhaustion, and questions I can’t always answer. And when they finally fall asleep, I often find myself staring at Emily’s photo, whispering, “Am I doing this right?”
Then, one evening, everything changed.
I was folding laundry while the boys watched cartoons when the doorbell rang. Standing outside was a woman in her thirties—nervous, teary-eyed, clutching an envelope like it might shatter.
“Are you Mrs. Harper?” she asked softly.
“Yes,” I said cautiously.
Continue reading on next page…