This year, for the first time in ten years, Larry and I will be sharing Thanksgiving with family. It all began with a text from my sister Laura in late June 2025.
“I am moving to an independent living place near my children,” she wrote.
In our follow-up phone call, Laura told me she had woken up in the middle of the night, in a panic. “Why am I living so far from my children and grandchildren?” she had asked herself. “
“I’m 82 years old. Family is everything,” she told me. “And Marilyn, don’t make the same mistake I did. Don’t wait until you are in your eighties to make your move closer to YOUR children. You love Colorado. Move NOW!”
Laura was not alone in her advice. For the past few years, my own children had been urging Larry and me to move from Florida to Denver. It would be seventy-five minutes from Julie, Sam, and our Mountain Girl’s home in Summit County and a much shorter flight for Adam, Sarah, and our two younger grandchildren’s home in San Francisco. That August, saying goodbye to us the parking lot of our summer rental, Julie and our granddaughter had put in a tearful plea echoing Laura’s words. “We want you closer!” Julie said. “Sam and I are always going to Denver for business. You could come up to your granddaughter’s events, and Adam and his family would be a short flight away. Larry and I quickly contacted a realtor and did a short exploratory search of homes in the Denver area before flying out.
Meanwhile, Laura’s move was progressing smoothly. Her cottage on Lake Champlain sold its first week on the market; her son and daughter-in-law would rent out her Arizona home. The independent living place had an opening in early September. By the time she left with my brother, sister-in-law, and a friend in mid-August for a trans-Atlantic trip to the British Isles, Laura had packed up most of her cottage and was eagerly awaiting the move to California.
Two days after the four travelers came back home, Laura woke up with difficulty breathing and was admitted to the hospital. After ten days of good news/bad news, she succumbed to a rare form of pneumonia she had contracted on her cruise. My sister was gone. And her advice to move closer to our children took on more importance.
We had a great team: Anna Centron, our realtor; Sandie and Howie Vipler; our dear friends from Upstate New York now Denverites; Julie and Sam, who met with Anna in person to scope potential homes; and my dear Larry, who spent hours on the internet checking out hundreds of homes. For a full year, it was a Goldilocks tale. Too big. Too small. Too expensive. Too many stairs. Too far from Frisco. Too far from amenities. Too required renovation. We finally narrowed our ideal home down to a condo like the Viplers’ in the Central Park area of Denver. Anna kept telling us, “It will all fall in place. When you least expect it, the stars will align.”
On August 21, Sandie sent me a text: “I dreamed last night that the unit like mine came on the market and you got it.”
I immediately texted her back: “Last night, we lit Laura’s Yahrzeit candle. I am convinced the perfect house will come up, a sign and a gift from my sister that her wish for us to be closer to our children would happen.”
The next day, when I returned from my exercise class, Larry shared his news: Immediately after his pickleball game, he clicked on Zillow and up came a listing for a “perfect” condo that had been posted only four minutes earlier. “I texted the information to Anna and she is already on top of it,” Larry assured me.
On the way to synagogue later that day. Anna texted us videos of the condo. “This place is perfect for you! It’s bright, airy, and in a great location,” she said. “I’ll arrange for Julie and Sam to check it out with me tomorrow.”
As we settled in our usual Shabbat seats, a fellow congregant handed Larry a prayer book “I think you would like to use this one tonight,” he said. The inscription at the front of the book read, “Dedicated by Marilyn and Larry Shapiro in memory of our parents Doris & Ernest Shapiro and Frances and Bill Cohen.”
“It’s another sign,” I said to Larry. “First Sandie’s dream. Then Laura’s Yahrzeit. Now our parents are saying to us that this condo is the right move.”
The next morning, Julie and Sam Facetimed with us while they waited outside the condo for Anna’s arrival. “Mom, this neighborhood is beautiful. Lots of trees. Coffee shops and restaurants close by. And there’s even apark with a LAP POOL at the end of your block” Their next message was a text sent from inside the condo. “Here is the bottom line: BUY IT!!”
Soon after making a quick call to Anna repeating Julie’s message, we received from Anna the purchase agreement documents we needed to sign. I gasped when I read the name of the seller’s realtor. “Renee Cohen,” it read. My full name is Marilyn Renee Cohen Shapiro. Four hours later, our offer was accepted.
By October 9, we had closed on our Central Park home and were officially Coloradans. Of course, I have many more “moving stories” to tell. We had a house and “furniture-that-wouldn’t-work-in-Denver” to sell. A hundred boxes to pack. Too many goodbyes to say to dear friends in Kissimmee. Two 2000-mile drives to transport our two cars to Denver. Tales of our first week in our new condo without internet, without furniture, and with 90% of our lives in a van on its way to Denver. And our upcoming first Thanksgiving since 2016 with family.
And many more signs—and b’shert moments—were to follow…including one I received from Mishkan Hanefesh, our Rosh Hashanah prayer book three days before we got an offer on our Florida home: “You have stayed long enough in this place, God said./Time to go forward./Turn your face to the future.”
