I never planned to start over at seventy-three. Everyone expected me to fade quietly into my little house, knit scarves, and wait for the days to pass. Then my husband passed away, and the silence grew heavy — his aftershave still on a flannel shirt, the coffee pot always empty, and my sons too busy to visit. Even the clock seemed to tick louder.
Then one Sunday after church, I overheard volunteers whispering about a newborn at the shelter — a baby girl with Down syndrome, “too much work,” they said. Without thinking, I asked, “Where is she?”
She was tiny, with dark, curious eyes and her fists tucked under her chin. When she looked at me, something inside me shifted — the kind of ache that turns into purpose. “I’ll take her,” I said. The social worker blinked at my age. I repeated myself.
My neighbors called me crazy. My son said, “You won’t live to see her graduate.”
I told him, “Then I’ll love her every single day until I can’t.”
I named her Clara, after the name stitched on the only onesie she owned. One week later, eleven sleek black cars lined up in front of my old porch. A lawyer stepped out and asked, “Are you Clara’s guardian?” Then he handed me papers that would change everything.
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