At 75, my life had grown quiet.

The days seemed longer, each one blending into the next. I spent most of my time thinking about the past.

My daughter, Gianna, had died three years ago, and not a day went by that I didn’t think of her.

My son, Sebastian, lived in another city. He was busy with work and his own family. He called from time to time, but his visits were rare. I missed him, but I understood. Life has a way of pulling us all in different directions.

My life passed quietly as I shopped for groceries and attended my weekly book club meetings.