A Home of My Own
I thought the meal was the end. But Darryl shook his head.
“We’ve got one more stop.”
We rode to a quiet street lined with flowers and tidy lawns. In front of a small white cottage with blue shutters, Darryl stopped.
“This,” he said, “is yours.”
A charity had partnered with them to renovate homes for seniors. They’d furnished it, paid the rent for a year, and stocked the fridge.
I stood frozen, tears streaming. For so long I’d felt discarded. Now, strangers had handed me dignity.
