Part 1
I used to believe that the hardest decisions I would face at sixty-four were simple ones.
Should I water my tomatoes before breakfast or after?
Should I spend the afternoon trimming the roses or finally organize the old photographs sitting in the hallway closet?
Should I make chicken soup for dinner or just enjoy a quiet bowl of cereal while watching my favorite evening program?
After losing my husband and spending more than three decades in the same little suburban home, I had learned to appreciate a peaceful life.
A quiet morning.
A clean kitchen.
The sound of birds outside my window.
The familiar creak of the wooden floorboards beneath my feet.
Those ordinary moments were the things I treasured most.
My name is Eleanor, and for thirty-two years, my house had been my safe place.
It was where my husband and I raised memories.
It was where we celebrated birthdays, hosted holiday dinners, and sat together on the porch during warm summer nights, talking about everything and nothing.
