I’m 72 years old now, and if someone had told me a year ago that I would be raising a baby again at this point in my life, I would never have believed it.
But life unfolds in unexpected ways.
Six months ago, my daughter Sarah packed a suitcase while I stood in the kitchen making breakfast. I remember hearing her footsteps upstairs. When she appeared in the doorway holding her two-week-old daughter, Lily, I assumed she was simply stepping outside for some fresh air with the baby.
That felt like the most natural thing in the world.
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