They Called Me “Poor Old Mom”—So I Bought a One-Way Freedom Ticket

brushed something stiff.

A folded piece of paper.

Yellowed at the edges.

My heart stuttered.

Henry’s handwriting.

I hadn’t seen it in years.

I unfolded it carefully, like it might dissolve.

It was dated two months before he died.

And it began with my name.

Eleanor,

If you’re reading this, it means I’m not there to stand between you and the parts of life that continue reading …