My name is Eleanor, and I am 90 years old. I am a widow. I am tired. And most of all, I am tired of being forgotten. I never imagined I would tell a story like this, but here I am, sitting in my old armchair, remembering how it all happened. People love to say, “Family is everything.”But sometimes, family forgets what that word even means. I raised three children with my late husband, George. We worked hard our whole lives. George was a good man—steady, kind, the kind who

I thought the hardest part was over when I gave birth. I thought finally holding my baby in my arms would be the peak of exhaustion and joy. But then Michael showed up at my hospital room with tears in his eyes and a request I never expected. I’m Hannah, 33 years old, and until recently, I believed I was building a beautiful life with the man I loved. Michael and I had been together for almost nine years. We met in high school. He was the tall, quiet guy

That day, the sky looked furious, like it was angry at the whole world and wanted to wash everything away. Thick, dark clouds pressed low over the house, and the rain slammed hard against the roof, one wave after another, as if it was trying to break through. The wind screamed and whistled around the walls, shaking the windows so violently that they rattled nonstop. The power had gone out hours earlier, leaving the house cold, silent, and empty, like a place already abandoned. Inside, everything felt wrong. The tiled