My name is Donna, and I’m 73 years old. I am a widow, and for a long time, I believed my life had quietly settled into its final chapter. Society assumes people my age fade into the background, knitting scarves, sipping tea, and watching television.
That was the expectation, and even my neighbors saw me as the quiet, gentle old lady who had nothing more to offer. My own family implied it too, as if my days of significance had already ended. I had accepted this… until fate intervened.
Everything changed after my husband Joseph died. We had been married nearly fifty years. He was my anchor, my compass, the man who filled the gas tank when I forgot and kept the coffee pot always warm.