Imagine finding yourself in the twilight of your life, in a new place — without your husband of 50 years.

Recently, William, my husband, passed away, leaving me in our huge house in Virginia. I’ve been around for a long time, and I’ve had my heart broken by many things. But nothing prepares you for losing your spouse.

“Mom, please,” my son, Mark, said on the phone. “I need you to consider moving. Just come and be closer to us — the kids will love having you here.”

“I don’t want to lose my independence, Son,” I said. “Your father and I promised not to get involved in your life like that.”

“You don’t have to live with me,” he chuckled. “I’ll find you a place close by. I’ll start looking and send you options. Okay? Please, Mom.”

I had to give in. At seventy years old, and although I felt absolutely fine and healthy, I didn’t know if living by myself, so far away from Mark, was a good idea.

“Fine,” I said. “You can start looking, and I’ll start sorting things out here.”

When William passed, a part of me did too. The world was suddenly less vibrant, the days seemed longer, and the silence in our home became suffocating.

I spent evenings in the kitchen, making fresh batches of scones — more than I could eat, prompting me to send them over to my neighbors.

We were all extremely close, and William and I often threw parties for everyone in our backyard.

“You’re really going to leave us, Maureen?” my neighbor and close friend, Shelley, said.

“It’s not set in stone,” I said, pouring tea into cups for us. “But it makes more sense for me to be around Mark. We’re not getting younger.”

“Then, you’ve got to throw another legendary party before you leave,” Shelley smiled.

The truth was that William and I had been quite popular in Virginia. Our barbecue restaurant was a beacon for all enthusiasts from across the state. We also had a range of spice rubs which sold well in supermarkets.

William always tested our new products on our neighbors during our dinners.

“Our friends will be honest about it, Maureen,” he always said, his hands usually rubbing the spice into the meat.

Eventually, I started packing things away. I donated some of William’s clothes and gave away other unnecessary items that wouldn’t make the move with me. The more I packed, the heavier my heart grew.

I’d miss everything about my life here. But the consolation prize was my grandchildren.

“Mom, I found the perfect house,” Mark said. “I’ve viewed it, and I think you’ll love it.”

The next thing I knew, I was packing up my life and heading to California for a new adventure.

A few weeks into my new neighborhood, California presented a challenge I had not anticipated. Having sold our restaurant a long time ago, I had plenty of free time. Mark handled all the finances, so all I wanted to do was knit away on my new porch.

I knew I didn’t fit into the neighborhood. It was vibrant with young families — the children running across the street to each other’s homes, ice cream in hand.

And while these families were incredibly friendly to each other, they seemed to cast me aside — the elderly widow.

My attempts at conversation were often met with cold shoulders and suspicious glances, a reaction that bewildered me. I couldn’t understand what was wrong with me.

Was it my clothing? I wondered.

I preferred to dress simply, in comfortable clothes. There was no need for fancy attire.

I watched everyone glance at my house from the sidewalk.

After a few weeks, the coldness of my neighbors soon turned to outright hostility. Snide remarks and laughter shadowed my every step — a complete contrast to my old neighborhood.

One evening, while I sat in my home watching television and eating a slice of cake, I heard shuffling outside. I watched as a few rowdy teenagers vandalized my garden — my daily pride and joy.

My flowers were left uprooted, and trash was thrown all over my lawn.

“Would your parents be proud of you? Do you think they’d be proud of your behavior? Is this how you treat your elders?” I shouted through the window.

Desperate and alone, I went to bed longing for William’s presence.

The next morning, I called Mark over. He was furious when he saw the aftermath of the boys’ nighttime activities.

“Mom, we have to do something about this,” he said, slamming his fist onto the table.

I made him a sandwich while he continued to fume.

“I can’t believe this. How can they treat anyone like this? Let alone you?”

I sighed.

“I thought moving here would bring me closer to the family, but this is just loneliness in a different guise, Mark. Do you think this was a mistake?” I asked.

Mark stood abruptly.

“I’ll talk to them, Mom! This cannot go on,” he exclaimed.

But I raised a hand, stopping him mid-thought.

“No, son,” I said. “I have another idea, something that might just work. Do you remember how your father and I brought people together back in Virginia? How our barbecue parties were more than just food? It was about bringing everyone together for a meal?”

Understanding dawned in Mark’s eyes, a slow smile appearing on his face as he remembered those events.

Mark took me to the supermarket, and we got everything I needed — including bottles of our spice rub.

Over the next few days, with Mark and his family’s help, my backyard transformed into a makeshift barbecue haven. The smoker, an old friend 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?