Amanda had never imagined her life would turn out this way. At 73, she lived in a small one-bedroom apartment on the outskirts of town, surviving on a modest Social Security check that seemed to shrink a little more each year.
Her husband, Thomas, had passed away eight years ago, leaving her with memories, a few pieces of furniture, and not much else.
There had been no children, no nieces or nephews to check in on her. Her sister had moved to Arizona 15 years ago, and they only managed phone calls on birthdays and holidays. Most days, Amanda’s only companion was the television set in her living room and the stray cat that sometimes visited her kitchen window.
She’d worked as a seamstress for 40 years before retiring, mending clothes at the local dry cleaner and taking in alterations on the side. Her hands, though weathered and marked by arthritis now, still remembered the rhythm of needle and thread.
Knitting had become her comfort in the long, quiet evenings, something to keep her fingers busy and her mind from wandering too far into loneliness.
Besides that, money was always tight.