I zipped her winter jacket up to her chin and pushed the wall button to raise the heavy overhead door.

By half past nine that morning, Margaret’s silver sedan was pulling onto the gravel driveway beside our side garden.

She came up the back porch steps carrying a small woven basket neatly covered with a blue cotton cloth.

“I brought fresh cranberry muffins for you and Sophie,” she said, stepping into the warm kitchen before I’d even gotten the screen door all the way open.

She set the basket on the oak counter and peeled off her suede driving gloves, laying them next to the sink.