My name is Theresa, and I am sixty-three years old.
I’ve been a widow for most of my adult life.
When my husband died, my daughter Mary Lou was still small enough to fit on my hip. From that day forward, it was just the two of us against the world.
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My name is Theresa, and I am sixty-three years old.
I’ve been a widow for most of my adult life.
When my husband died, my daughter Mary Lou was still small enough to fit on my hip. From that day forward, it was just the two of us against the world.
The Sunday brunch crowd had arrived right on schedule. The diner buzzed with conversation. Coffee cups clinked against saucers. Servers hurried between tables balancing…