Margaret Wilson sat peacefully in the passenger seat of her daughter’s car, her weathered hands clasped carefully over the small leather purse in her lap. At 83, her once auburn hair had faded to a soft silver, and delicate lines etched the passing years on her face. The familiar streets of her neighborhood slid by the window, each carrying memories of the 47 years she had lived in the same modest two-bedroom house.
She glanced at Lisa, her adopted daughter, whose gaze was fixed on the road.
Margaret had taken her into her home when she was just 7, a quiet girl with a solemn gaze who had seen too much sadness. Now, at 42, Lisa had grown into a serene woman with a gentle strength that reminded Margaret of the oak tree in the backyard.
The one who had weathered countless storms, yet still stood tall. “Are you comfortable, Mom?
Do you need me to adjust the heat?” Lisa asked, briefly locking eyes with Margaret.
“I’m fine, dear,” Margaret replied, though comfort was far from her mind. Margaret’s eyes narrowed, the small suitcase in the trunk containing what she had considered essential from a lifetime of possessions. Photo albums, her wedding ring, some treasured books, and a week’s worth of clothes.
The rest of her belongings had been sorted through over the past month.
Some donated, others given to neighbors, and the most precious distributed among relatives. Margaret knew this day would come.
Her health had been steadily deteriorating since her fall last winter. The doctor’s words echoed in her mind.
“You shouldn’t live alone anymore, Margaret.”
When Lisa suggested they go for a walk today, Margaret understood what it meant.
The brochures for San and Pine’s retirement community had been on her coffee table for weeks. Lisa had been kind, but persistent in her need to take the next step. They drove in silence for a while, leaving the familiar part of town behind.
Margaret watched the landscape change from the neighborhood streets to the main road leading out of town.
A lump formed in her throat as they drove past the library, where she had volunteered for 20 years, and then past the park, where she had pushed Lisa on the swings as a child. “Remember how you used to beg me to push you higher on those swings?” Margaret said, her voice slightly shaking.
The story doesn’t end here –
it continues on the next page.
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