Since her fall the previous winter, her health had declined steadily. The doctor’s voice still echoed in her thoughts: You really shouldn’t be living alone anymore, Margaret. When Lisa suggested a drive that morning, Margaret understood what it meant. The brochures for the San Pines retirement community had sat on her coffee table for weeks. Lisa had been gentle—but persistent.

They drove in silence as the scenery shifted. Margaret watched familiar landmarks pass by: the library where she’d volunteered for two decades, the park where she used to push Lisa on the swings.

“Do you remember how you always begged me to push you higher?” Margaret said, her voice wavering.

Lisa smiled. “You warned me not to go too high—and then pushed harder than ever. I screamed every time.”

The memory hovered between them, sweet and heavy.

A few minutes later, Margaret frowned. “Did we miss the turn?” she asked. “San Pines should’ve been back there.”

“We’re not going there today, Mom,” Lisa replied, a subtle smile touching her lips.

Margaret’s heart tightened. “Then where are we going?”

“Just a little farther. We’re almost there.”

Ten minutes later, the car turned onto a quiet, tree-lined street Margaret didn’t recognize. The houses were older, charming, with manicured gardens and tall trees. Lisa slowed and pulled into the driveway of a cozy blue cottage trimmed in white, a wide porch decorated with flower boxes.

“Here we are,” Lisa said, turning off the engine.

Margaret stared, confused. “Where… are we?”

“Home,” Lisa answered.

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