I Retired to Rest, Then My Daughter Drafted Me Into Motherhood Again

I walk in without a limp.

No costume today.

The classroom smells like paper and paint and possibility. There are six women and one man, all older, all holding brushes like fragile instruments.

The instructor smiles. “First time?”

I nod.

She hands me a piece of paper. “Just make a mark.”

A mark.

I think of all the marks I’ve made for everyone else—grades, continue reading …