Living alone - no other human companions, that is, no more family members - so many of us have done this. Widows, divorcees, empty nesters.
You have the start of a poem or a novel (or a freewrite prompt) here: Your mother must fix the furnace. Winter will be here very soon.
When I commend my sister Kelly's daughters for being so strong thoughout her brutal battle with cancer and her cruel demise, they say they do not feel strong at all. We all cry a lot. When do tears run dry? When do hearts mend? They don't, really, but we keep moving, one step at a time, and if that makes us look strong, let us soak up the accolades and feel strong. Even though these interludes keep happening: Going through the motions, when I am not doubled over with grief.
Maybe you will recite poems along with your lovely garden photos (your pine needles come to mind - gorgeous photography) and post on You-Tube as Mary Oliver has done:
When I am Among the Trees
Mary Oliver
When I am among the trees,
especially the willows and the honey locust,
equally the beech, the oaks and the pines,
they give off such hints of gladness.
I would almost say that they save me, and daily.
I am so distant from the hope of myself,
in which I have goodness, and discernment,
and never hurry through the world
but walk slowly, and bow often.
Around me the trees stir in their leaves
and call out, “Stay awhile.”
The light flows from their branches.
And they call again, “It's simple,” they say,
“and you too have come
into the world to do this, to go easy, to be filled
with light, and to shine.”
Oh my! this!
One line does not make sense to me
then she goes on to, seemingly, describe how she is while in the woods. How is she distant? What is she distanced from?