My son texted, “Cancel dinner,” but when I got to the restaurant, I found them eating secretly without me, and I was paying. I didn’t yell. I smiled, asked the manager for a minute, and brought out a “surprise” that made all the plates stop in mid-air.

Mornings in Blue Springs always start the same way. I wake up at first light when most of my neighbors are still asleep. At 78, one appreciates each new day as a gift.

To be honest, though, some days are more like an ordeal—especially when my joints ache so badly that even walking to the bathroom becomes a feat.

My little house on Maplewood Avenue isn’t what it used to be. The wallpaper in the living room has faded over thirty years, and the wooden porch steps creak louder each spring.

George, my husband, was always going to fix them, but never got around to it before his heart attack.