beside me.
I touched the frame.
“You were right,” I whispered.
For most of my life, I had mistaken being needed for being loved.
They weren’t the same.
Love meant being remembered.
Being respected.
Being allowed to rest.
And sometimes, love required enough courage to say no.
I looked toward the empty road.
Then smiled.
My husband was gone.
My son had grown up.
The old house was gone.
So was my old life.
But I was still here.
That was what nobody had understood.
They assumed Ernest’s death had
