I am 65, and eight months ago my husband died in a house fire.
They called it faulty wiring. I called it the end of my life as I knew it.
After the fire, I moved in with my son, Daniel, and his wife, Theresa. I had nowhere else ready yet. Insurance was dragging. My savings were limited. Daniel said, “Mom, stay with us as long as you need.”
Then Daniel got deployed.
When he was home, Theresa played kind.
She’d say, “Don’t worry about dinner, Evelyn.”
She’d ask if I needed tea.