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

am currently sitting on the terrace of a rental villa in St. Thomas, in the Caribbean. The ocean is a turquoise that doesn’t exist in Boston. I have a glass of chilled white wine in my hand. The tropical breeze is messing up my white hair, but I don’t care.

I mentally re-read the letter they are reading right now, standing on the porch, surrounded by continue reading …