I never planned to be the kind of woman who starts over at seventy-three. People expected me to fade into my quiet house, knit a few scarves, and wait. Then my husband died and the rooms went cavernous with silence—his aftershave still clinging to one flannel shirt, the coffee pot suddenly always empty. My sons stopped dropping by. Their wives wrinkled their noses at my rescue cats. Even the ticking clock felt too loud. One Sunday after church I heard two volunteers whisper there was a newborn at the shelter—Down syndrome, no one coming, “too much work.” I didn’t think....
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