When we first moved to the little house at the end of Maple Street, I was filled with hope and a sense of new beginnings. It was just my 6-year-old daughter, Lily, and I. We were finally starting over after a difficult year: me going through a tough divorce with Lily’s father, and Lily having to navigate life without her father living in the same house.
“It’s okay, Mom,” she said softly to me one night. “I don’t like how Dad always shouted at us.”
It was clear then that we needed to break free. From the moment I met Mrs.
Thompson, she reminded me of my own grandmother. There was this motherly warmth to her that made me feel like moving here was the right decision. “I’m Hazel,” she said, walking up to our porch with a batch of freshly baked cookies.
“I’m so glad you’re moving into the neighborhood. My house is that one.”
She pointed to the little house directly next to mine. “And who is this little girl?” she asked, seeing Lily jump into a pile of leaves.
“This is Lily, my daughter,” I said, introducing the two. “We needed a new start.”
When our official moving day arrived, Mrs. Thompson insisted on coming over and helping me unpack.
