By 62, I’d finally gotten used to living alone.
My husband died 15 years ago. Our only son left the country even earlier and never looked back. The house was quiet, predictable, and mine.
So when things started moving around on their own, I did what most people my age do.
I blamed myself.
At first, it was small things: a vase turned slightly, a photo frame facing the wrong way, a decorative bowl in a different spot.
“You’re getting forgetful,” I told myself. “You probably moved it and don’t remember.”
But then I walked into my living room one morning and froze.
A dining room chair was pushed up against the living room wall – a chair that had absolutely no reason to be there.
Later, I found an old family portrait – one I hadn’t touched in years – lying on the kitchen counter.
That’s when I stopped laughing it off and started wondering if I was losing my mind.
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