I felt like what I actually was.
A graduate.
Later, when the sun began dropping behind the trees, I found David and Ryan outside near the porch.
For a while, none of us spoke.
Finally, I said, “We’re not fixed.”
David nodded.
“I know.”
“One party doesn’t erase several years.”
“We know.”
Ryan looked at me cautiously.
I stared out at the yard Margaret had loved.
“But maybe we stop wasting the years we still have.”
Ryan’s eyes filled again.
“I’d like that.”
David nodded.
“So would I.”
I raised my glass toward the darkening sky.
“To Margaret.”
Their expressions softened.
“To Mom.”
We drank.
Through the open front door, I could see my framed degree resting on the mantel beside Margaret’s photograph.
At sixty-eight, I was probably not going to begin a thirty-year career.
That had never been the point.
The degree had already paid me back in ways money never could.
It had given structure to empty days.
It had given me friendships.
It had challenged me.
Embarrassed me.
Frustrated me.
Made me laugh.
Made me nervous.
And, most importantly, it had reminded me that losing one chapter of your life does not mean the book is finished.
For years, my sons had looked at my savings and seen what might someday remain for them.
I had looked at those same savings and finally understood something different.
Money earned over a lifetime should support a life.
My savings were mine to spend.
My time was mine to use.
My future was mine to live.
Whatever happened to remain afterward could become an inheritance.
But I was not an inheritance.
