Group Home Life

You pull up to Oakridge House just as the afternoon light turns golden through the trees. The house is old — white siding, a wraparound porch with a couple of worn rocking chairs. A woman with kind eyes and silver-streaked hair steps out the front door, wiping her hands on a dish towel.

"You must be our new arrival. Welcome, welcome." She gives a warm smile and extends her hand. "I'm Maria — I run things around here. And you are...?"

She waits, hand still out, patient and unhurried, like she's got all the time in the world for you.