I had planted a garden full of hardy, salt-resistant roses. I had joined a book club in the village. I had learned to paint watercolors.
I looked at my reflection in the window glass. The lines were there, yes. The gray hair was there. But the eyes—my mother was right. The fire was back.
I wasn’t just Eleanor Bryant, the wife. I wasn’t just the mother. I was simply Eleanor.
I took a sip of tea, the steam warming my face. I thought about Richard, sitting in his bachelor apartment in the city, surrounded by his “freedom” and his regrets.
And then I thought about me.
I took a deep breath of the salty air.
“Freedom looks good on you, Eleanor,” I whispered to the wind.
It is never too late. The calendar is a suggestion, not a cage. You can endure for thirty years, and then, in a single moment of clarity, you can decide that thirty years and one day is too long.
What would you have done in my place? Would you have stayed for the history, or left for the truth? Share your thoughts in the comments—I love hearing different perspectives on the moments that change everything. Please like and share this story if you believe it’s never too late to choose yourself.
