AT 69, I SOLD MY HOUSE AND TRAVELED THE WORLD ALONE, AND MY CHILDREN CALLED ME SELFISH. HALF A WORLD AWAY, A KIND MAN INVITED ME IN FOR COFFEE.
ABOVE HIS FIREPLACE HUNG A PAINTING I'D FORGOTTEN I EVER MADE — SIGNED, FIFTY YEARS AGO, IN MY OWN HAND.
Chapter 1: The House I Sold
At sixty-nine, I sold my house to travel the world despite my children's protests — in a seaside town called Pelican Reach, a man invited me in for coffee, and when I walked into his living room, I froze.
My name is Eleanor. I spent my whole life taking care of others — four children, grandchildren, loans to anyone who asked — and my children mostly called when they needed something. After my husband died twelve years ago, I spent years lost. Then at sixty-nine I realized I'd spent my life waiting for "someday," so I sold my house and booked a trip around the world. My children called me selfish; two blocked my number.
Pelican Reach, my fourth stop, is where I met Arthur — seventy-one, widowed, gentle, funny, in love with the same old movies and jazz I was. He invited me for coffee, and when I stepped into his living room, I froze.
Above his fireplace hung a small oil painting of a willow over a pond — a painting I had made fifty years ago, before marriage and children swallowed the young woman I used to be. I tilted it off the wall, and there was my own maiden signature. "I'm the girl who painted it," I told him. "You've been living with a piece of me for forty years."
