At sixty-two, I thought my life would be calm and predictable—quiet mornings with coffee on the porch, time spent gardening, and afternoons chatting at book club. Instead, my days start with cereal spilled on the floor, sticky hands tugging at my sleeves, and two five-year-old whirlwinds named Jack and Liam arguing over who gets the blue spoon. They’re my grandsons, and since my daughter Emily’s tragic car accident last year, they’ve become my whole world.
Raising them alone has been the hardest thing I’ve ever done. I love them more than words can say, but the exhaustion is relentless—school runs, tantrums, endless questions, and long nights when grief creeps in after they’ve fallen asleep. Sometimes I sit by the window, holding Emily’s photo, whispering, “Am I doing this right?”
Then, one evening, everything changed.
The boys were watching cartoons while I folded laundry when the doorbell rang. On my porch stood a woman in her thirties, eyes red from crying, clutching an envelope tightly.
“Are you Mrs. Harper?” she asked softly.
“Yes,” I replied cautiously.
“My name is Rachel,” she said. “It’s about Emily.”
Hearing my daughter’s name nearly stopped my heart. No one spoke of her anymore—it was too painful. “What about her?” I asked.
