My name is Helen, and at sixty-eight years old, I found myself thrust back into the trenches of motherhood under the most tragic of circumstances. Six months ago, a stormy afternoon and a slick patch of highway claimed the lives of my son and his wife. They had gone out for a simple morning errand and never returned, leaving behind a world shattered into a million jagged pieces and a one-month-old daughter named Grace.

In my golden years, I had envisioned a life of quiet gardening, reading through the stack of books on my nightstand, and perhaps finally taking that coastal cruise I had saved for over a decade. Instead, I found myself pacing the hallway at 3:00 AM, my back aching and my hands trembling as I tried to remember the exact ratio for a bottle of formula. The shock was a heavy, physical thing. I spent many nights sitting at my kitchen table in the dark, whispering questions into the silence that never answered. I wondered if I had enough strength, enough years, or enough love to give this innocent child the life she deserved.

The financial reality was just as daunting as the emotional one. My meager pension was never intended to support an infant. To bridge the gap, I took on every odd job my aging body could manage: pet sitting for neighbors, sewing intricate patterns for church bazaars, and tutoring local children in English literature. Every dollar felt like a victory, yet every dollar seemed to disappear instantly into the bottomless pit of diapers, wipes, and specialized formula. There were weeks when my own meals consisted of little more than boiled potatoes and tea so that Grace’s pantry remained full. But then she would curl her tiny, sticky fingers around my thumb and look at me with her father’s eyes, and I would find a reservoir of strength I didn’t know I possessed.