I never thought I’d be starting over at seventy-three. By that age, people assume your story has already been written — routines settled, memories tucked neatly into photo albums, and days spent in quiet comfort. But when my husband passed away, silence became my only companion. His mug still sat by the sink, his favorite shirt still smelled faintly of aftershave, and the house felt too big for one heart to carry.
My sons had their own families and little patience for my rescue cats. The rooms echoed with everything I’d lost.
Then, one gray Sunday after church, I overheard two women talking about a newborn left at the hospital — a baby girl with Down syndrome.
“No one’s coming for her,” one whispered. “She’ll probably end up in the system.”
I didn’t plan what happened next. I just asked, “Where is she?”
When I saw her, she was so tiny she could have fit in my palm. Her eyes met mine — clear, curious, full of something I hadn’t felt in years: hope.
“I’ll take her,” I said.
The social worker looked at me, probably wondering if grief had clouded my judgment. But I meant every word.
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