Margaret Wilson sat quietly in the passenger seat of her daughter’s car, her time-worn hands clasped carefully over the small leather handbag in her lap. At 83, her once auburn hair had faded to a soft silver, and delicate lines etched the years on her face. The familiar streets of her neighborhood drifted past the window, each carrying memories of the 47 years she had lived in the same modest two-room house
She glanced sideways at Lisa, her adopted daughter, who kept her gaze fixed on the path. Margaret had taken her in when the girl was only 7, a quiet child with a solemn expression who had already seen too much sadness. Now, at 42, Lisa had become a serene woman with a gentle strength that reminded Margaret of the oak tree in the back garden. The one that had withstood countless storms, yet still stood tall. “Are you comfortable, Mom?”
