At 71, I went back to work. My pension barely covered utilities. I picked up shifts at a local diner. My back hurt. My hands shook sometimes from exhaustion. But every morning I got up because four small faces were depending on me.
We slowly created a fragile rhythm—school, homework, bedtime stories, quiet crying after lights went out.Then, exactly six months after the accident, something arrived that shook everything again.
A delivery truck pulled up while the children were at school.
The driver knocked and asked where I wanted the box.
I hadn’t ordered anything.
The label said only:
To My Mom.
