At 75, I thought my quiet life was set in stone until a five-year-old orphan looked at me like I was her only hope. That’s when everything unraveled at home.
Where Trust Begins Again
My whole life was about work. My late husband George and I built our future one brick at a time. Instead of traveling and going to fancy restaurants, we had paint stains in our hair and the constant promise of “just a little more, and we’ll be set.”
Finally, I lived off my pension and the income from two small houses George and I bought with the last of our savings. I rent them out.
Those homes pay for my peace, my freedom… and my loneliness.
My children, Adam and Claire, drifted away a long time ago. They only show up when they need something: help with the grandkids, a quick loan until payday, or a place to crash after another failed relationship.
I never argued. I just listened, offered what I could, and stayed quiet. And then, as always, they disappeared again.
That morning, I stepped out onto the porch just as the mail carrier arrived.
“Morning, Mrs. Laura!” she smiled, handing over a few envelopes. “Some flyers and the water bill. How are you today?”
“The same as always. Silence, tea, and memories.”
“No visits from the kids?”
I nodded.
“They’re doing fine. That’s what matters.”
She gave me a sympathetic look before driving off.
I headed into town. I needed some bread, milk, and apples. But as I was picking out fruit at the store, I ran into Lena, a nurse from the local clinic.
“Laura… did you hear about Julie and Tom?”
“No. What happened?”
“They died this morning. Car accident. Head-on collision. Didn’t make it.”
My heart dropped.
“And… their daughter? Ellie?”
“She’s in foster care. Social workers picked her up right away. Poor thing’s in the system now. Barely five years old and all alone.”
I stood there, a bag of apples still in hand, the world suddenly quieter.
I didn’t even go straight home. I took a detour.