Mom was standing at the stove, humming a song Dad used to sing, and I hadn’t heard her hum in years.
My name is Grace.
I’m 52 and a mother of two grown children.
Until that spring, I thought I understood my family pretty well.
Peter and I had grown up in the same small house, with a father who repaired anything that broke and a mother who never let anyone leave her table hungry.
Dad died eight years ago.
Afterward, Mom kept busy with her garden and church friends, but her evenings were lonely.
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