They said I was too old, too lonely, and too tired to matter.
They were wrong.
Because one winter morning, at seventy-three, I made a decision that changed everything — and a week later, the sound of engines outside my home proved that love has a way of rewriting fate.
My name is Donna. I’ve lived in the same small house in Illinois for nearly fifty years. I raised two sons there, buried my husband Joseph there, and watched the life slowly fade from the walls after he passed. When he was alive, the house was full — of laughter, music, the smell of fresh coffee. After he died, silence moved in and never left.