They said I was too old, too lonely, and too broken to matter, until I adopted a baby girl no one wanted. One week later, 11 black Rolls-Royces pulled up to my porch, and everything I thought I knew about her changed.
I never thought I’d be writing something like this. I’m 73, widowed, and most people think that women my age should stick to knitting scarves, watching game shows, and waiting for the inevitable. But life didn’t hand me that kind of ending. No, it gave me a story that still makes my hands tremble when I tell it.
My name is Donna, and I’ve lived in the same weather-beaten house in small-town Illinois for almost five decades. I raised two boys here. I buried my husband here. I’ve seen this porch covered in snowfall and funeral flowers. I’ve lived a full life, yes, but nothing prepared me for what happened after my husband Joseph passed away.