People needed legal help.
Counseling.
Housing support.
Financial advice.
Sometimes protection.
Sometimes simply the dignity of making their own decisions.
But they also needed somewhere safe to sleep while they found their footing.
And that was something Hawthorne Ridge could offer.
One November afternoon, our first resident arrived.
Her name was Patricia.
She was sixty-four.
Her husband had died after a long illness, and she’d spent years caring for him while helping raise her grandchildren.
When her son remarried, the family decided it would be more convenient if Patricia moved out.
She had been told that the spare room was needed for a nursery.
She arrived at Hawthorne Ridge carrying two suitcases.
The similarity nearly took my breath away.
I met her outside the cottage.
She looked embarrassed.
“I’m sorry I have so much luggage.”
I smiled.
“You’re allowed to bring your things.”
She looked down.
“I won’t be any trouble.”
