At seventy-three, I never imagined I would have to start over. By that age, people assume your life is settled — routines are in place, the stories have been told, and the world has shrunk to the quiet comfort of familiar spaces. But when my husband passed away, silence filled the house like smoke. His aftershave still clung to a shirt, and his mug remained by the sink, forever half-remembered. My sons, absorbed in their own lives, drifted away, and their wives sneered at my rescue cats. The house, once full of life, had become an echo chamber of all that I had lost.
