My son won the lottery, kicked me out of the house, and said: “You’re worthless! Go live in a nursing home.” I wandered aimlessly to clear my mind. When I sat down on a bench, a homeless man walked up to me, smiled, and said: “You look just like my late wife…”

He took a hesitant step closer, his eyes never leaving my face. “Your hair? It’s still that same shade of auburn. And your eyes? They’re still that deep brown I remember.” His voice cracked slightly. “Ma’am, this is going to sound crazy, but what’s your name?”Plan Gardens

Something in his tone made me answer honestly. “Glenda. Glenda Morrison.”

The man’s face went completely white. He stumbled backward like I’d physically struck him, his backpack sliding off his shoulder and hitting the ground with a soft thud. For a moment, I thought he might faint.

“That’s impossible,” he whispered, more to himself than to me. “She’s dead. I buried her 15 years ago.”

A chill ran down my spine that had nothing to do with the February cold. “I’m sorry. I think you have me confused with someone else.”

But he was shaking his head vigorously, tears starting to stream down his weathered cheeks.