riend from our home, and William’s favorite, took center stage, surrounded by an array of sauces and meats that promised a feast like no other.

Mark made flyers, and his children put them all along the street, inviting people to our event.

As the first wisps of smoke rose into the air, carrying with them the mouthwatering scent of cooking meats, curiosity replaced the indifference I had grown accustomed to.

Neighbors arrived, drawn by the promise of a meal.

“Good day, everyone!” I greeted, as the first of my guests arrived, their expressions a mix of surprise and intrigue.

“I hope you’re all hungry!”

A young woman, who had been among the most standoffish, approached tentatively.

“I didn’t know you could cook like this,” she said, holding a plate of sliders.

“I’m so sorry for how I spoke to you.”

The vandals also stood, looking sheepishly at me.

“We’re sorry, ma’am,” one of them said. “Can we come in? It smells delicious!”

I smiled, letting them pass me to the backyard.

As the day wore on, my backyard buzzed with laughter and conversation, the air thick with the aroma of spices and smoke.

Mark, his wife, and their children mingled with our guests, serving, chatting, and breaking down the invisible barriers that had once seemed insurmountable.

Looking around at the smiling faces, the empty plates, and the lingering hugs of newly forged friendships, I couldn’t help but think that William was here with me. The parents of the teenage boys promised me that their sons would fix my garden.

And the boys, themselves, nodded enthusiastically.

“It can only get better from here, Mom,” Mark said, handing me an ice cream.

“I think so, too,” I said.

I hope so.

Would you have stayed here or moved back home?

🤔🤔🤔

Source: amomama