I considered the question.
“Free.”
She laughed softly.
“That sounds better than revenge.”
“It is.”
“Good. Because tomorrow I’m leaving Sunset Manor.”
I sat up.
“You are?”
“I found an independent senior community near my niece. Private apartment. My own kitchen. My own schedule.”
I smiled.
“I’m proud of you.”
“You started it.”
“No.”
I looked around my house.
“You just remembered you still had choices.”
After our call ended, I walked from room to room turning on lights.
My kitchen.
My books.
My chair.
My schedule.
My choices.
For the first time since Harold died, the future did not feel like a hallway gradually narrowing around me.
It felt open.
I was sixty-two years old.
I had my health.
My independence.
Financial security.
Friends.
And a new understanding of my own strength.
For years, I had allowed people to think of me primarily as Harold’s wife or Dominic and Sarah’s mother.
But I was still Vera.
And Vera had a life to live.
—
Six months later, I sat beside the window reading the newspaper when a car door slammed outside.
Then came the bell.
“Mom?”
Dominic.
“Please. I know you’re home.”
I finished the paragraph I was reading before walking to the door.
When I opened it, I barely recognized him.
He looked older.
His clothes were wrinkled.
His hair needed cutting.
Dark circles surrounded his eyes.
Amber was nowhere in sight.
“Hello, Dominic.”
“Can I come inside? Five minutes.”
I hesitated.
Then stepped aside.
“Five minutes.”
He entered slowly.
Not like the confident son who had walked into my home months earlier carrying documents and decisions already made for me.
This Dominic seemed uncertain of where he was allowed to stand.
“You changed the house,” he said.
“Yes.”
“It looks nice.”
“Thank you.”
I sat down.
He remained standing.
“Where’s Amber?”
His jaw tightened.
“She left.”
“When?”
“Three weeks ago. She moved back to Phoenix.”
I noticed his wedding ring was gone.
“I’m sorry.”
He gave me a tired look.
“You don’t have to pretend.”
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