She glanced at Lisa, her adopted daughter, who was staring down the road. Margaret had welcomed Lisa into her life when the little girl was only seven—quiet, reserved, and carrying a sadness no child should ever have to know. Now, at forty-two, Lisa had become a serene and composed woman, strong in a way that reminded Margaret of the old oak tree behind the house—the one that had withstood countless storms without ever falling.
“Are you hot enough, Mom?” Lisa demanded, discreetly looking away from the road.
“I’m fine, my dear,” Margaret replied gently, even though her heart was far from at peace.
Her gaze fell on the trunk of the car, where a simple suitcase contained what she had
